


The Necrofloranomicon

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Dark Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Flowers, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Necromancy, POV Multiple, Past Torture, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, SHIELD, SHIELD Agent Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Supernatural Law Enforcement, Touch-Starved, Touching, necromancer bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: Bucky didn't want much. Just to keep his head down, to sell his scavenged flowers in peace, and to stay off Shield's radar. His life would have been a lot easier if his flowers weren't dead and if being a necromancer wasn't illegal, but easy or not, he was getting by. Steve didn't want much, either. He was happy working for Shield, he had good friends, and overall his life was going just about the way he wanted it. Problem was, being happy with your life was generally an invitation for fate to throw a spanner in the works—and in Steve's specific case, it was going to be a spanner named Bucky.(A love story about flowers, trust, and magic and the choices we make about doing what's right.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to Nonymos (thirteen years in Azkaban!) who let me patiently rabbit on about this and kindly provided French and Latin translations, and to alby_mangroves, who also listened to me rabbit on, and to Kiriei, who didn't laugh at me when I said, 'oh a necromancer who raises dead flowers, wouldn't that be hilarious' because, as per usual, this was meant to be short and silly and instead it turned into this. 
> 
> Please note, the title is thematic only. No Necronomicons, floral or otherwise, appear in this story.

The dead were walking.

No, the dead weren't _walking._ They were _running_ , lurching madly forward, faces blank as they threw themselves into the fray beside Hydra's foot soldiers.

"What the f—" came over the comms, profanity sharply snapped off as the agent caught herself.

"We knew he had one." Agent Romanov's voice was crisp and clean and utterly calm. "This isn't the first time Hydra's used the dead."

Steve clenched his teeth as he turned towards the new threat. He hated facing the dead. Not because they were dangerous, although they were that. He hated facing them because they used to be people. Each body had once been _someone_ , had once been a person, and Shield had no choice but to completely destroy them, because it was the only way to stop the dead. That, or killing the necromancer, but even that wouldn't work here, because if Shield's intelligence was right, it wasn't the necromancer controlling these dead. It was something even worse.

Alexander Pierce controlled Hydra, and every scrap of intelligence said he was a bloodthief who'd built his criminal empire on blood and death and a kaleidoscope of stolen power, because that's what bloodthieves did. They stole the power of anyone they could make bleed; make them bleed enough, keep the blood fresh, and the power they could wield was almost limitless. Shield had finally run Pierce to ground, here in Hydra's last outpost, and when they took it down, when they took Pierce down, Hydra would be over.

Steve cut down a dead woman wearing a floral dress by chopping through her ankles with an axe—fighting the dead didn't lend itself to modern weapons—and threw himself backwards, kicking several more dead towards the agents with over-sized stakes, who were driving them through the dead, pinning them to the ground, and drew his gun to shoot a living Hydra foot soldier. He shot to wound, to disable, because killing them meant they'd just get up and keep fighting, and moved forward until he reached Agent Romanov. "Pierce."

"Yes." They hadn't been on the same team for long, but he knew her thoughts echoed his. They needed to stop Pierce. It was the only way to end this.

"You know where he is?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go get him." There was a shadow of doubt in her eyes and he knew she was _letting_ him see it. He answered it with, "Of all of us, I'm the only one who's got nothing he can steal."

She processed that quick as thought, accepted it, and she was running, swift and lithe, dodging through the chaos. He took off after her, a draft horse chasing a thoroughbred, but he managed something approaching her grace as they slid through the fighting.

They were silent as they moved deeper into the base, Agent Romanov's magic muffling their approach, as they took out the few guards who'd remained inside, making their way through the twisty hallways until they reached Pierce.

They found him in what could have passed for an expensive office in any inner-city skyscraper, and he wasn't what Steve had expected. Pierce had been the bogeyman lurking behind Hydra since Shield had become aware of it, shadows and rumours painting him larger than life, but dressed in a well-cut suit, the picture of calm as his eyes landed on them, he looked like a politician. The only things ruining the illusion were a slight wrinkling around his eyes—and the blood soaking his arms to the elbows and dripping off his hands.

"Shield?" he asked, raising one eyebrow in casual enquiry.

They were both in their uniforms, Shield insignia clearly visible, so it wasn't really a question. Steve answered anyway. "Yes. Alexander Pierce? Head of Hydra?"

Pierce smiled, seemingly genuinely amused. "Yes. And yes."

Agent Romanov was gathering power, Steve could almost feel it in the air, and knew she'd shield him from any magic Pierce might hurl their way. He drew his gun and pointed it at Pierce's chest, wanting to keep Pierce's attention completely on him. "Let the power go. You're done. It's over."

Steve might as well not have spoken for all the attention Pierce was paying to him. "Hydras are fascinating creatures. They're almost impossible to kill. If you cut off one head, two more grow in its place. Amazingly resilient." He smiled benevolently. "Do you know the secret to killing a hydra?"

Unease prickled down Steve's spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

"The hydra has to kill itself." Blood arced through the air as Pierce's hand darted forward to slam down on the desk. Steve fired, a clean shot through the heart, and Pierce crumpled. An explosion rocked the base as he hit the ground.

"Why do they always have to be _dramatic_?" Agent Romanov bowed her head, teeth clenched, face pale, a fine tremor visible in her hands.

"Agent Romanov?"

"That wasn't the only bomb. He rigged the place to go off in a chain. I couldn't keep them from detonating, but I'm holding them."

 _She was holding them…_ "Fuck." Steve holstered his gun.

She gave him a wan smile.

"What can I do?"

"Know any show tunes?"

"I can hum a mean Oklahoma."

"I'd like to hear that." She twitched. "They'll burn themselves out, I've just got to keep them contained until then." A full body shiver made her close her eyes, her fingernails digging into her palms, and Steve made a decision.

"Hey," he said, stepping closer. "I also do a mean impression of a wall." She opened one eye to glare half-heartedly at him. "Lean on me," he said quietly. "I give you my word, I'll never tell a soul."

She swayed, stubbornly stayed on her feet, but finally, gradually, she tilted forward to lean against him, resting her forehead against his chest. He had no idea what it was costing her to _hold explosions until they burned themselves out_ , and he knew she'd never admit it, even if she was on the verge of death, but the fact that she was leaning on him at all? It gave him a pretty good idea.

He stood solid and stoic, not touching her, and after what felt like hours, but Steve figured was more like ten minutes, she let out a shaky breath and went limp. It was automatic to put an arm around her, afraid she was going to puddle down onto the floor. She barely reacted beyond saying, "You do make a good wall."

"Anytime."

 

* * *

 

Pierce was dead, Hydra was broken. Shield found a whole level of people he'd kept captive as sources of various powers; they were going to be a long time recovering, but Shield had that covered.

The one thing Shield didn't find was a necromancer. There were bodies everywhere, too many that couldn't be identified, and it was the next thing to impossible to work out which had been walking around before Pierce died and which hadn't. In the end, whoever the necromancer had been, they decided he must have died in the fighting and closed the file. 


	2. Five Years Later

"Dammit, why do they have to bury them right at the bottom. For fuck's sake, it's trash. Why the hell do they care if someone takes some dead flowers. Don't bury them, just toss them in with the rest of the... A'ha! Gotcha."

Bucky shimmied his way out of the dumpster, careful with his armful of dead flowers, and spared a moment to be truly thankful this florist shared the dumpster with accountants and a tailor, and not with a takeaway joint. There was a limit to what he was prepared to put up with.

"Look at you," he murmured to the browning, wilted, once-beautiful blooms he was cradling like a child. He looked around, making sure no one was in sight—given he was in the depths of an alley, it wasn't surprising that he was well and truly on his own—then brushed the flowers with the tiniest touch of his power, just enough to keep curled leaves and dried petals from slipping free. "Let's get you home."

He gently stowed them in the repurposed hockey gear bag, also scavenged from a dumpster and carefully repaired, adding them to the dead flowers he'd collected earlier, slung the bag over his shoulder, pulled his cap low over his eyes, and headed for home.

 

* * *

 

Home was a tiny apartment. Technically it was a studio, but _studio apartment_ tended to conjure images of cute, quaint, Ikea-catalogue spaces, compact and gleaming. Not barely serviceable, probably illegal, basement shitholes that consisted of one room that he was grateful actually had a separate bathroom and not just a toilet sitting in the middle of the floor. Of course, the bathroom hadn't had a _door_ when he'd moved in, just a shower curtain duct-taped to the doorframe, but he'd fixed that easily enough, scrubbed the place with a generous helping of bleach, and turned it into something liveable, even it was never going to win any awards.

The rent was manageable, included utilities, the landlord hadn't asked for references and no one asked any questions. Those factors answered any number of the building's sins.

There were two other apartments in the basement, reached by a set of creaky, questionable stairs from the ground floor, but Bucky rarely saw his neighbours. The few times he did, no one made eye contact, and everyone kept moving.

He had a feeling 'no references needed and no questions asked' were the apartments' primary selling points.

Bucky unlocked the door to his apartment and his wards wrapped around him, warm and comforting as he passed through them. "Hey there," he murmured, and they greeted him like a sleepy dog giving one thump of a tail before they returned to sleep. Everyone had wards; if your magic wasn't strong enough to make your own, you could buy them off the shelf at Walmart. As far as Bucky knew most people didn't talk to theirs, but he'd gotten into the habit.

The half-musty, half-sweet scent of dead flowers filled his tiny apartment. They were piled on the tiny, battered table and on the seat of the fat armchair, both curb-rescues, and getting the armchair down the questionable stairs had been an adventure. Dead flowers rested on the crooked shelves, constructed from scrounged planks and concrete blocks and leaning precariously against the wall, blocking his view of the battered books that overflowed them. Most of the books, the ones he'd found in dumpsters, had been stripped completely of their covers and he'd written the titles on the spines in black sharpie; the others were battered, damaged, broken-spined and torn, mostly picked up on sale at second-hand bookstores.

The flowers themselves were in various stages of toss-them-because-no-one's-going-buy-anything-that-looks-like-that. Each and every one had been rescued from the trash and it showed. Their petals were brown and wilted, they were drooping and dry, their leaves starting to curl, their stems beginning to rot.

Bucky set down his bag and unpacked today's haul, piling them gently on the floor, and stood back, taking a mental tally of the flowers, then nodded in satisfaction.

This was good, this would last him for a while, and there were two weddings coming up in venues where he could get to the dumpsters, and if he managed to get even half the flowers, it would be another good haul.

He needed a damn shower before he did anything with these ones, though. Maybe he had a hard and fast rule about not climbing into dumpsters full of food, but a dumpster was still a dumpster. You didn't come out smelling daisy-fresh. _Daisy-fresh. Heh._ Bucky grinned at himself and went to shower.

His shower was fast and cold, because apparently today the building's sins included no hot water, which was sadly not all that unusual. Swearing and shivering, he towelled dry and pulled on a sweater and sweatpants, his damp hair curling around his ears and plastering itself to his neck.

When he was warm, Bucky settled cross-legged on his bed. "You guys still good?" he murmured to the wards, and they sleepily responded. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, sinking into himself. His power lived behind a door he kept firmly closed, but for this he needed to open it. Just a little, just a touch. He had to be careful. He had to be so careful. Just a whisper, just a breath, or he'd destroy them.

He eased the door open and power trickled into him, filling his mind, but he clamped down on it, leashed it and held it as, one by one, the flowers faded into his awareness.

His apartment was filled with dead things. Each was a point of light in his mind, and all he had to do was _reach..._ Softly, delicately, he let his power flow, whisper-thin filaments stretching out to each dead flower and each flower answered his call, returning to a semblance of life and turning towards him as they'd once turned towards the sun.

Bucky opened his eyes with a small, satisfied smile. His apartment was filled with bright, beautiful blooms, each one as glorious as it had been in life.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Steve regretted joining Shield.

Not really, not seriously, but the faint thought would from time to time pass through his mind that if he hadn't joined Shield he wouldn’t find himself, to pick a random example, wading through knee-deep sewerage.

Sam swooped by high overhead, calling out the location of the elementalist over the comms, and Steve slogged forward, wishing his uniform was water-proof and not just water-resistant.

"Shitty situation, huh?" Nat's dry voice came over the comms and a snort of barely repressed laughter he knew was Sam answered.

Steve opted not to reply—mostly because he was trying to breathe as little as possible.

This was not what he'd expected, not what any of them had expected, when Foresight had sent them down here. Sewerage aside, Steve didn't mind all that much. The only damage so far had been to property and dignity, and that wasn't usually the case when Foresight got involved with such certainty about time and place.

Shield offered top dollar to recruit anyone with precognition powers, since there was no point being responsible for magical law enforcement if you couldn't be where you needed to be when you needed to be there. Sometimes Foresight was as vague as an autumn fog and sometimes they were as sharp as a blade. Sometimes following Foresight's reports meant a lot of standing around, waiting for something bad to happen and coming up with nothing, because future paths were twisty and changeable, and Shield's presence could be enough to knock the future onto a different road entirely.

Shield counted those as a win.

The entire point of Shield's existence was to protect the country—in truth, they had enough cross-jurisdictional agreements in place, you could extend that to a big chunk of the world—from anything involving magic, to deal with the proscribed powers—the bloodthieves, the mindstealers, the soulbinders, the necromancers—and with anyone who decided to use their magic to hurt people. Because everyone had magic, some people manifested a specific power on top of that, and when they decided to find out how far that could take them on the wrong side of the law, Shield stepped in.

Steve was one of the rare exceptions to the _everyone had magic_ rule. He was completely magically null, but he did just fine with tools and pre-made spells and Shield-issued equipment and, when it came right down to it, a hard enough fist to the face stopped anyone if you did it right. Which he demonstrated by wading up behind the son of a bitch currently flooding the town with back-flow from the sewers—the pale, scrawny, son of a bitch who was standing untouched by the sewerage, the brown water swirling around him like he was some kind of cheap knock-off Moses while he stared at Nat—and laying him out.

Steve didn't _knock_ him out, not quite, but his magic snapped as his focus broke, the disgusting brown water flooding over him while he thrashed and squawked in disgust, and Steve pulled one of Sam's spells out of his pocket, a curl of deep red with flashes of silver, slapped it against the son of a bitch's skin, snapped out, " _Duerme_ ," and he flopped over and started snoring.

The sewerage was already receding, flowing back into the drains around town. As soon as it was shallow enough he wouldn't drown, Steve dropped him on the ground with a splash.

"Duerme?" Nat asked as she hopped off the car she'd been perched on and sloshed over to him, boots making a sucking sound with each step.

"Sam thinks it's funny to set the spell-triggers in different languages."

Nat grinned and Steve suddenly saw a lot more of it in his future. They walked away, both ignoring the snoring man behind them, while Nat radioed for a clean-up crew.

 

* * *

 

"Okay, let me just see if I can follow the thought process here," Sam said when they were heading back. 

Steve was slumped on the floor of the Quinjet, leaning against Nat's seat, legs stretched out in front of him, wanting to keep their smell contained. Sam was sitting across from them, his uniform almost pristine. Steve and Nat had washed up as best they could, but they weren't exactly clean, and Steve was grateful his nose seemed to have simply given up in the face of the constant assault.

"I can control water," Sam continued.

"Did you have a power shift when I wasn't looking?" Nat asked.

"Funny. As I was saying, I can control water. Valuable power, any number of multinationals are gonna hire you, you can almost name your own price. Instead you decide to go on a rampage with the sewer system because you're mad that the town won't... What was it again?"

"They wouldn't comp his water bill," Nat said.

"Right, comp the water bill. That's the stupidest things I've ever heard."

" _The_ stupidest?" Steve asked

"Good point. Okay, one of the stupidest. Although, that wave was kind of impressive," Sam mused.

"Says the one who was flying above it," Nat replied and Sam grinned.

"Is it just me, or are things getting messier?" Steve asked.

"It could have been worse," Nat said.

Steve tilted his head back, staring up at her in horrified curiosity.

Sam shook his head. "Uh uh, no. Don't do it, Steve. Don't ask her. It's just begging for trouble. You want to jinx us?"

Nat's face was utterly deadpan, but her eyes flashed with mischief. Steve glanced at Sam, then said to Nat, "Okay. I'll bite. How exactly could it have been worse?"

Sam rolled his eyes and threw his hands up with a clear _why do I even bother with you_ look.

"It could have been a necromancer."

Sam's nose wrinkled. "Now why would you put that out there? I had to _burn_ my uniform after the last one. _Dead_ is not a smell you ever get out."

She raised an eyebrow at him and Steve smothered a laugh.

"Fine," Sam conceded. "Yes, it could have been worse."

 

* * *

 

Bucky's favourite part of how he made a living was that it had no overhead. Every penny was clear profit. _Almost_ every penny. He did have to fork out a bit for paper and string to wrap the flowers, but he wasn't buying anything fancy, and people seemed to like the rustic look. It fit their idea of buying from a street vendor. The flowers he sold would fade after a week or so, but regular cut flowers didn't last any longer than that, so no one expected anything different.

He had a set routine, certain places on certain days—and certain places he didn't go anywhere near, ever. He'd hammered it out through months of trial and error and getting chased off with the threat of cops following him, but what he had now was rock solid.

He'd take his flowers and sell them outside hospitals, offering a better deal than could be found anywhere else. People visiting the hospital, they'd stop and buy a bouquet, usually pleasantly surprised by how cheap they were. His arrangements weren't fancy, there were no curls of this or puffs of that, artistry wasn't exactly his gift, but they were bright and bold and colourful.

What he was doing was totally illegal. He had no licence, no permit, he was basically dependent on the goodwill of the security guards—which was why it had taken him so long to find a routine, and why he stuck to it. The illegality of street vending without a permit paled in comparison to how incredibly illegal it was to use his power, how incredibly illegal it was to even be what he was, so he found it difficult to give a damn. 

Most of the places he set up to sell his flowers weren't fancy. They were places people appreciated a chance to buy flowers for their friends, for their family, for their loved ones at a decent price and didn't much care they were buying them from a guy on the street. If now and then he gave a bouquet or two away to someone who really couldn't afford one, even at his prices, that was nobody's business.

And if, when his flowers sold out faster than expected, he sometimes dropped a don't-notice-me spell over himself and wandered through the hospital, using the barest breath of power to refresh people's flowers, to make them beautiful again, that was also nobody's business.

He had to do something with his time, he might as well do that.


	3. Chapter 3

"Agent Rogers?"

Steve looked up from the magazine he hadn't been reading. It was a little wrinkled, because while he hadn't been reading it, he'd been worrying it between his hands. He was still in his uniform, since he'd brought Sam here as soon as things had cooled down. "Yes?"

The nurse gave him a kind smile. "If you want to come with me, we've moved Agent Wilson to a room."

"Is he okay?" he asked as he stood up.

"He's fine." Humour lurked in her eyes. "Anything else he'll need to tell you himself, but I don't think that will be a problem." She led the way down the hall, then gestured Steve into a room where Sam was lying in a hospital bed, grinning like a loon. Steve's worry drained away and he glanced at the nurse. She squeezed his elbow. "He'll be just fine. The doctor will be by in a few minutes to talk to him, but you should be able to take him home tonight."

"Steve!" Sam exclaimed, his grin getting wider.

"Got you on the good drugs, huh?" Steve asked, turning to thank the nurse as she left.

"So good, man. We've got to get these for the office."

"Uh huh, and I'm sure you being high as a kite's going to improve things in the field."

"True, true, but listen." Sam tried to shove himself up to a sitting position, failed, and stared at his arms in betrayal.

Steve planted a hand on his chest and said, "Stay down, will you? You're in here for a reason." The reason being the leg that was swathed in bandages and what would hopefully be a temporary cast.

"Right. Okay, but listen. If I'm high, I'll be relaxed, and I'll land softer. Less chance something will get damaged."

Steve dropped into the chair next to the bed and laughed softly. "I'll be sure to mention that in my drug requisition memo to Hill."

"You do that."

"Apart from the drugs, how are you feeling?"

"Apart from the drugs, I'm not feeling much of anything. They're excellent drugs. But from what I picked up my leg's gonna be just fine."

"Doc should be here soon, but yeah, it seems that way."

"Uh huh, soon. I'm sure." Sam smacked his lips. "Don't suppose water's gonna be here anytime soon?"

"Yeah, hang on. There's vending machines at the end of the hall, I'll get you one."

"I love you, man. I really do. You're like a big damn golden retriever. Or, no, not a golden," Sam's eyes lit up as inspiration hit, "one of those big dogs that protect sheep. Guardian dogs. Marinos."

"I think that's a quarterback."

"I'm drugged, gimme a break. You know the ones I mean. Big, white, fight wolves."

Steve didn't even try to hide his grin. "You're lucky I didn't have time to get back to HQ and change. If I had my phone I'd have blackmail material for days. For weeks."

"Shut up and get my water."

Laughing, Steve left him and went to do just that, Sam's grumbling following him. 

He hadn't been worried about Sam, not _worried_ worried. He'd hit the ground a little too hard, a little too fast, diving out of the air to avoid the elemental lightning crackling through the sky, and a hurt leg was hardly life threatening. But Sam's power lived in his body, it's what let him fly, and no one knew how permanent damage would affect it. That made any injury, even a minor one, a bigger deal than it would be for anyone else.

But he was going to be fine. Embarrassed when the drugs wore off, and Steve was kicking himself he'd missed the chance to get Sam on video calling him a dog _._ Didn't mean he wasn't going to tease the hell out of h—

Steve blinked in surprise as the door next to the vending machines, the one that led to the stairs, wobbled back and forth, like someone had run through it. He hadn't seen anyone, but he hadn't exactly been paying attention; in his defence, the memory of Sam calling him a _big damn golden retriever_ would have been enough to distract anyone.

 

* * *

 

Bucky threw himself down the stairs, heart pounding, taking them two at a time, slammed out onto the street, wrapped in the tightest don't notice-me-spell he'd ever woven, and bolted across the road, narrowly missing getting wiped out by a car that couldn't see him.

That had been a fucking _Shield agent._ A fucking Shield agent in full uniform on the same fucking floor of the hospital as him. Thank fuck he'd noticed before he'd used his power. _That was too close._

He dropped the spell when he was five blocks away, hiding in the shadow of one of his favourite dumpsters, trying not to breathe too deep, because no dumpster ever smelled _good_.

Back plastered to the brick wall, Bucky waited. He was sure he'd gotten away, sure he hadn't been noticed, but still he waited. Hours passed and he remained still and silent. He'd learned this skill at the point of pain and honed it in the murky depths of fear, and no one noticed him, no one saw him.

When dusk settled her cloak over the city he made his cautious way home.

He stopped across the street from his apartment, scanning the surrounding buildings, the people, the sky. Nothing seemed out of place.

The stairs were the same, handrail so wobbly it may as well not have been there, the basement hallway the same musty, damp, dim unwelcoming hole it had always been. He reached for his wards and they answered, sleepy and unconcerned. He'd know if anyone had forced them or scanned them; they'd tell him, complaining the whole time.

They were untouched.

When he was safely inside, he stood in front of the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on his face.

It helped. It helped him think _logically_.

Of course his wards were untouched. Of course he was safe. No one knew him. No one knew who he was. He hadn't used his power. There'd been nothing to trip the senses of that goddamned Shield agent. He hadn't even known Bucky was there.

He was safe.

All he had to do was make sure he never went back to that hospital, since it was apparently frequented by goddamned Shield agents, and he'd be fine. 

 

* * *

 

Three years ago, when Sam had transferred onto Steve's Shield team, Steve hadn't been sure how it would go. There was always that moment of wondering, of waiting to see how someone new would react to the magical null in their midst.

He'd known that even if Sam had turned out to be someone who thought nulls weren't good for much, he'd keep it to himself—that was how it went in Shield—but Steve knew he'd be able to tell.

He could always tell.

It hadn't taken him long to work out Sam _didn't_ have a problem. It hadn't taken him much longer to figure out Sam was someone special. He'd turned out to be one of the best people Steve had ever met and his magic was incredible. Watching Sam _fly_ , propelled by strength of power and body and will, was like nothing he'd ever seen. Watching Sam and Nat wind their magic together, when he'd never seen Nat let _anyone_ in, not like that, the two of them creating spells imbued with their power, made just for _him,_ attuned for him, to lift him up and get him on an almost equal magical footing... It changed things. It changed things for all three of them.

Steve and Nat had grown close after Pierce, and Sam became part of that. The three of them were a team within a team. There was a reason Shield kept them together and for the first time since his mother died, he had a family again.

But a Sam who'd been injured? A Sam who was under orders _not_ to use his power? A grounded Sam, who'd been told to stay off his feet, and _not_ by taking to the skies? That Sam was equal parts grumpy puppy and absolutely hilarious.

Steve was sympathetic, he really was, but now that he knew Sam was going to be fine, he couldn’t resist giving him shit about what Sam swore wasn't whining, but was absolutely, one hundred percent whining.

He'd thought of offering his sympathy with a singing telegram, but Sam was holed up in Shield and they'd never make it past security. What would make it past security, however, were flowers. Big, elaborate, ridiculous flowers. Possibly with some sort of stuffed animal.

The florist he stopped into was vaguely on his way home, and he walked into both the shop and an argument.

"It's stealing!"

"It's not."

He was guessing they both worked here, given they were wearing aprons and nametags: one that read William and one that read Benjamin.

"It is," William insisted. "It's blatant stealing. You can't just take things that belong to other people."

"We threw them out. They're in the dumpster. How can it be stealing if we threw them in the dumpster?" Benjamin planted his hands on his hips and stared William down.

William huffed and glared. "I don't care. They're in _our_ dumpster. That means they're ours."

"You're such an ass. He's probably an artist or something, makes dead flower sculptures."

"Ha, artist my patootie. He's a damn bum is what he is. A thieving bum."

"Oh, you think everyone's a bum."

The exchange amused Steve probably more than it should, but he felt like he had a duty to intervene. Also, he kind of wanted to order his flowers and get home some time before midnight and this had the cadence of an argument that could go on forever. "It's not against the law to take something out of a dumpster unless the person's trespassing to do it." William and Benjamin both jumped and whirled, eyes wide. He wasn't in uniform, but he could still do the voice. "And then it's the trespassing that's the problem. It can vary from city to city, but that's the law here."

"Shi...how can I help you, Sir?" Benjamin asked and Steve _didn't_ smile at the near slip.

"Sorry," William said. "We didn't hear you come in."

"That's fine. I've been there myself. I need to order flowers for a friend."

"No problem. Can you give me an idea of what you want?"

After a back and forth, some discussion about colours and shape, Steve had arranged for both a bouquet and an adorable stuffed penguin to be delivered to Shield headquarters the next day. The bouquet William and Benjamin put together was just this side of over-the-top colourful, would say _I'm sorry you're injured_ , but with definite sarcastic overtones. Steve was impressed at their skill. That the penguin was a flightless bird was just a bonus.

As Steve left the shop, he heard Benjamin say, clear as day, "I _told you_ it wasn't illegal," in what could only be described as a crow of delight.

"Oh, shut up, he's still a bum, and I'm still calling the cops," was the muttered reply.

"You're _such_ an ass. You're not calling anyone."

Steve shook his head and kept walking. He'd gotten exactly as involved as was prepared to; he was just glad he wasn't the target of William's ire.

It was a gorgeous evening, and he amused himself imagining Sam's reaction when the flowers and their flightless friend arrived. He was digging out his phone to text Nat, automatically glancing into the mouth of the alley as he walked past it, when he spied a figure half-hanging out of the dumpster way down at the back of the alley. He was dressed in dark clothes, was barely visible, and chances were no one else would have seen him, but Steve was trained to notice when things were out of place.

He was guessing he'd just found the artist-slash-bum. He paused, weighing it up, then shoved his phone back in his pocket and made his way into the alley. The guy wasn't doing anything wrong, but that wouldn’t stop the cops from hassling him if William did end up calling them. It wouldn't hurt anything to give him a heads up.

Steve wasn't trying to be stealthy, but Nat had taught him to be swift and silent, to carry himself with grace despite his size; it wasn't something he knew how to set aside. He was half-hidden by the evening's lengthening shadows and when the guy lifted his head, looking around furtively, his body language screaming wariness, Steve melted into them, because that wasn't the look of someone on the up and up.

He wasn't prepared for much. He only had the most basic kit, but he'd spent his whole life with nothing but his fists and his body against people with magic. He could deal with whatever might be about to happen.

If anything _was_ going to happen. Maybe the guy was looking cagey because he was about to take a leak.

Apparently confident he was alone, the guy set an armful of dead flowers on the lid of the dumpster, straightened, and all hell promptly broke loose.

The guy's eyes flashed ice-blue and the sensor screamed in Steve's ear, the sensor that took the place of magic he didn't have, the sensor that warned of proximity to dangerous magic, and the display on his wrist flashed black.

Black was a necromancer.

The guy with the dead flowers was a necromancer. A necromancer who was using power _right now._ Steve didn't know what he was raising, didn't know what there could be in this alley _to_ raise—rats? Mice? Maybe a cat?—but whatever it was, it was happening.

For a heartbeat, he froze, because he was not equipped to deal with a necromancer, but that had never stopped him before and it sure as hell wasn't going to stop him now. Steve barrelled forward and slammed into him shoulder first, to break his concentration, moving awkwardly, with none of his usual grace, because he had to protect his skin. There was no time to get his gloves, no time to activate the magi-shield in the sensor to protect his face and neck, so he'd have to keep the necromancer from touching him the old-fashioned way.

Easier said than done when that was the first thing he'd go for, and Steve's heart pounded at the thought, but he didn't let it stop him. He braced himself for the necromancer to grab for his hands, his arms, his face, to go for exposed skin, but he didn't. Instead he caught his balance and tried to bolt. Steve lunged and caught the back of his hoodie, dragging him back, but the necromancer snatched a clump of dead flowers and flung them at Steve's face. Steve ducked, they went over his head and scattered across the alley, and Steve yanked on the necromancer's hoodie, hard enough to spin him around, and shoved his chest against the dumpster, grabbing him above the elbows, which were safely covered by long sleeves. He lunged back against Steve, slammed a foot into his shin, and Steve was hard pressed to hold him, since he couldn’t use the weight of his body, couldn't risk getting that close.

"Stop fighting," Steve snapped out. "Stop, I'm Shield, fighting isn't going to make anything easier for you."

All it got him was a bitter, hopeless laugh. "Easier for _me_? I know what happens next. Why the fuck should I make things easier for _you_?"

He twisted and planted a foot on Steve's knee, lunging up and over the side of the dumpster and Steve dragged him back down, losing his grip on his elbows. He twisted like an eel, ended up facing Steve, and he was panting, his expression desperate. Steve braced himself, grabbed his upper arms, holding him in place with sheer strength, but it didn't stop him as he scrabbled and twisted, forearms flailing as he tried to get free. Cool air whispered over Steve's ribs as his shirt rode up and he froze as a hand followed it.

The necromancer was touching him. Skin on skin and he could kill him, could drain him dry. It was what they did, draining life to raise the dead. Would he leave Steve unconscious or would Steve die here? If he died here, would the necromancer call his body up and use it against the people Steve loved? It flashed through Steve's mind in the space between heartbeats as he felt the heat of each finger sliding over his ribs, and his eyes flashed up to meet the necromancer's.

They were wide and blue-grey and filled with panic.

Before Steve could throw him off, the necromancer shuddered and jerked his hand away, like Steve's skin had burned him, and shocked, Steve let him go to stumble backwards, head bowed, hands shoved behind his back.

Steve didn't understand what had happened, but he could still feel the imprint of the necromancer's fingers.

They stood, breathing harshly, and neither spoke. The silence holding them felt fragile, precarious, like if it broke there was no telling what might be set lose. Steve pulled his gloves out of his back pocket and slipped them on, then traced the sigil that would activate the magi-shield. With his skin covered, he felt a little easier, but the necromancer didn't react. He didn't look up. He didn't seem to notice. Steve tucked his shirt back in, resisting the urge to scrub at his skin where the necromancer had touched him.

There was still no reaction, the silence still held, but fragile or not, it had to end eventually. Steve groped for words, something to say that wouldn't make the necromancer bolt, and settled on, "What are the flowers for?"

The necromancer lifted his head and sparks of anger flared in the weariness. He stalked to the scattered flowers, dead and dry and wilting, and scooped up a handful. He held them out to Steve, eyes narrowed, and there was the ice-blue, power rising as the alert _screamed_ in Steve's ear. The flowers began to change. Their leaves uncurled, their petals flooded with colour, green flaring into brilliant life, and as the alert finally stopped pronouncing imminent doom, the necromancer was holding a brilliant bouquet.

"That's what the flowers are for," he snapped. "That's what I do. That's all I do. I make a living raising dead flowers. I take them and make them beautiful and I sell them for cheap. You want to drag me into Shield for raising fucking _flowers_ , go ahead. I'm not going to fight you. I'm not—" The anger drained out of him, his shoulders slumped, and the bouquet fell to his side. "I won't fight you."

Steve had no idea how to process any of this.

He believed him. That was the first thing. He...believed him. It made no sense, but he believed him. The necromancer had had his hand on Steve's skin. Steve had frozen, and he wasn't proud of that, but he could have ended it right there. He could have drawn Steve's life right out of him, knocked him unconscious or killed him. The few seconds he'd had his hands on Steve's skin would have been all he'd needed. He hadn't. His hand on Steve's skin had seemed to _scare_ him. Steve hadn't imagined the panic in his eyes.

He hadn't been willing to hurt Steve to escape. Even when he'd been fighting—and it had barely been fighting, all he'd been trying to do was get away—he hadn't tried to touch Steve's skin. That hand on Steve's ribs had been an _accident_.  

It didn't make sense. It didn't fit with any of Steve's experience with necromancers, with his experience with any of the proscribed powers.

But he'd never heard of anyone using their necromancy to raise flowers. He knew what he should be doing now: calling Shield to take the necromancer into custody. He'd said he wouldn't fight him. Steve believed him. Head down, hands dangling at his side, the flowers still clutched in one of them, he was a man who'd given up. "What's your name?" he found himself asking.

The necromancer didn't answer.

"I'm Steve. Steve Rogers."

He lifted his head. "Do I need to know that? Am I going to get a satisfaction survey after you arrest me?"

"I'm not sure I'm going to."

Surprise flashed across the necromancer's face, quickly followed by suspicion, then resignation. "You can call me Bucky."

"Bucky. Thanks."

"What happens now?"

"I don't know." Steve shook his head. "I'm not promising anything, but I need to think about this. If I take you in, that's the end, there's no time to think about anything, but I can't just let you walk away."

"So, what?"

"You willing to wear a tracker?"

Bucky expression was answer enough.

"It's my personal tracker, I'm the only who'll know where you are. It's either that or I have to take you in."

"If those are my choices?" Bucky asked, and they both knew it wasn't a choice at all. "I'll wear the tracker."

The tracker Steve drew out of his wallet was a curl of translucent pewter, shimmering with blue highlights, something Nat had made for him. All he had to do was press it onto the skin of whoever he needed to track, but he hesitated. Even gloved, he hesitated. "It needs to go on your skin."

Bucky gave him a weary look. "Put it down and I'll do it myself."

Steve set it on the edge of the dumpster and Bucky lifted it and pressed it against the back of his hand. It writhed briefly, then faded out of sight as Bucky faded into his awareness.

There was nowhere he could run, nowhere he could hide, that Steve wouldn't eventually find him. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky had recognised Steve. He was the Shield agent from the hospital. Bucky's first thought had been that somehow Steve had tracked him down. That Steve had somehow known he'd been in the hospital. But if that had been the case, he was damn sure Steve—and he wasn't going to call him _Agent Rogers_ or _the Shield Agent_. He was going be _Steve_. It was the only way to fight his way to some sort of equal footing, however illusory it might be—would have mentioned it.

If it had been anyone else, he'd have been sure he was about to get mugged or worse. But no, it had been the damn giant blond Shield agent— _Steve_ —and he'd known this was the end.

One way or the other, it was the end.

Bucky curled up in the fat armchair and rubbed the back of his hand where Steve's tracker had vanished into his skin.

One way or another, he'd always known he'd end up here. It was pure, dumb luck Shield hadn't got him when they'd taken out Pierce and Hydra. When instead of taking him in, Shield had inadvertently set him free.

In had only been a matter of time before they corrected their mistake, and now Steve was here to do it for them.

Steve, whose life he'd felt under his hand. Bucky shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. He could still feel the warmth of Steve's skin against his fingers, the play of muscle over his ribs, the frantic beat of his heart. The golden glow of his life.

There'd been fear in Steve's eyes.

Bucky hated that fear. He'd hated it the first time he'd seen it and every time he saw it he hated it a little bit more. He hated that he'd touched Steve skin to skin and felt the hum of golden life under his hand, hated knowing that his power could drain it away, could end it entirely.

Now _his_ life was in _Steve's_ hands and all he could do was wait.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve hadn't meant to make the necromancer wait. He hadn't meant to be cruel, but the situation was unprecedented, he needed to think about it, and time to think wasn't something the universe seemed interested in giving him. People with ill intent had decided that now, just when Steve least wanted them to, was the perfect time to come out of the woodwork. It hadn't stopped him from making sure he knew where the necromancer was, and he'd cross-referenced that with local police reports and any reports from Foresight, but nothing matched up.

The necromancer was keeping his hands clean.

No, not _the_ _necromancer_. Bucky. _Bucky_. Even his _name_ was wrong. Necromancers chose names to evoke _fear._ Bucky was...it was a _raindrop_ of a name.

It weirdly fit someone who used a proscribed power on flowers. He was raising dead _flowers._ Steve had seen it for himself and he still couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"Steve! Pay attention!" Nat snapped out.

 _Shit._ "Sorry!"

Combat was not the time to get lost in a flight of fancy. Matter manipulators came in near infinite variations and when they decided the law wasn't for them, they could get extremely creative. In this case the matter manipulator had literally come out of the woodwork, or rather the woodwork had literally come out for her.

A flock of wooden ducks divebombed Steve and he pulled the trigger on the flamethrower and sent arcs of fire through the air, lighting them up, then dived for cover as one by one they hit the ground as they lost any semblance of structural integrity.

"Duck," Sam called.

"Yes, they were," Steve replied, and went to face the giant wooden rocking horse, gleaming red and white, while what seemed to be an endless stream of wooden mice scurried out of the bank, each clutching a hundred-dollar bill in their front paws. Unfortunately for the matter manipulator's dreams of wealth, wooden mice weren't particularly bright, so while Steve set fire to the brightly coloured rockers of the Toy Museum's beloved equine centrepiece, which was doing its best to kill him, Shield agents scooped up the mice and dropped them into large, high-sided crates.

Steve dodged out of the way as the rocking horse toppled over, legs blazing, and tried to crush him, its giant wooden teeth snapping the air right where his head had been. Knowing he was dooming himself to a future of Christmas nightmares, he set its head on fire, dancing in circles as it heaved itself after him, propelling itself forward on charred stumps.

"Next time," he said over the comms as the head slowly collapsed in on itself. "I want the mice!"

 

* * *

 

Bucky was wearing a nondescript dark green hoodie, a pair of old, worn jeans and his hiking boots, the hockey gear bag over his shoulder, and he was feeling cautiously optimistic when he came out of his apartment building. It had been a couple of weeks since his encounter with Steve in the alley, and he was starting to wonder (hope, really) if Steve had forgotten about him.

His steps slowed as he hit the sidewalk. As if summoned by Bucky's tentatively positive outlook on life, Steve was across the road, leaning against a No Parking sign. He lifted a hand in greeting and trotted across the street, dodging an early-morning delivery truck that honked at him in long-winded irritation.

"Are you supposed to be jay-walking?" Bucky asked warily as Steve stopped in front of him. He was wearing gloves and a long-sleeved shirt, jeans and boots, the only visible skin his face and neck, but Bucky could see the shimmer of gold that meant he was magically shielded.

"Probably not."

"What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd spend the day with you."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know what I'm dealing with. And what better way to get to know you than to spend a day with you."

Bucky eyed him suspiciously. "Is a Shield team going to be waiting somewhere?"

"No."

"Following you? Tracking me?"

Steve shook his head. Bucky gave him a doubtful look.

"You're wearing my tracker. I've always known where you were," Steve pointed out. "Shield could have taken you anytime." Bucky took a step back and Steve grimaced. "No, shit. That came out wrong, I wasn't trying to threaten you. No one's going to be waiting, no one's going to be following us or tracking us. I haven't told anyone about you."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. Can I spend the day with you?"

"Can I stop you?"

Steve lifted one shoulder in a shrug that wasn't yes and it wasn't no. Bucky grimaced and jerked his head at Steve to follow him.

While they walked, Bucky formulated a plan. It was a collect dead flowers day, not a selling flowers day, and if Steve was going to follow him around, he intended to put him to work.

"Take this," he said, putting the bag on the ground and pointing at it.

Steve took it without complaint, hoisting it over his shoulder, the same way Bucky had been carrying it. "Why?"

"You wanted to spend the day with me. You wanted to learn about me. Well you can learn what it feels like to haul the bag around."

Faint amusement passed over Steve's face, but he just nodded.

When they reached the first stop, a dumpster tucked in the narrow space between two strips of stores, Bucky stood back and waved at it. "You're lucky. The flowers are usually near the top in this one."

Steve dropped the bag and stared at him. "You want me to fish flowers out of the dumpster?"

Bucky smiled. For the first time he felt...amused? Satisfied? One of those, or maybe both...with the situation. "Golden learning opportunity right there."

Steve huffed, Steve stared at the sky, Steve sighed, and then Steve flipped open one half of the dumpster lid and hauled himself up to lean over the side. Bucky felt a flash of delight, because he hadn't thought Steve would actually do it.

He started pulling out dead flowers, handling them with surprising care, and setting them on the closed half of the dumpster lid. "Do you want them all? Some of them look...bad."

"Doesn't matter how bad they look. If they're mostly intact, I can use them."

Steve went still, like he'd suddenly remembered what Bucky was, what he intended to do with the flowers. Bucky felt his momentary enjoyment drain away. Then Steve said, "Right," and pulled out another handful, slid off the dumpster, wiped his gloves on his jeans, and nodded. He briefly met Bucky's eyes. "I forgot."

Bucky wasn't sure he believed him, but Steve gave him a half-smile, one that was almost apologetic, and it was so surprising the day seemed a little brighter. Bucky shifted his attention to the flowers. They weren't terrible, but he could see what Steve was talking about. Some were _old_ , dried and fragile, delicate enough he was amazed they'd made it intact out of the dumpster. They wouldn't make it home without a touch of power.

He gave Steve a flat look.

"Problem?" Steve asked.

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On what you're going to do if I...do a little work on these flowers. Are you going to freak out if you feel it?"

"Do a little work..." Steve trailed off. "Nice euphemism."

Bucky didn't say anything.

"I'm here to see what you do, I'm here to get to know you, so go ahead. I'm not going to do anything."

It wasn't like Steve didn't already have enough to burn him, since he'd raised those flowers in front of him. Bucky didn't take his eyes off Steve's while he cracked opened the door to his power and unreeled a filament, touching each flower, calling it, giving each one what it needed to hold itself intact until he got it home.

The effect on the oldest, the driest, was immediately apparent, the brown disappearing under a curling wave of green and colour.

Even with his powers tightly leashed, the flowers weren't the only dead he could sense: rats and mice and a poor cat, pigeons and crows, every one offering themselves to him if he needed them, and he locked his power down, slammed the door, and they disappeared.

Steve's eyes slipped away from his, drawn by the changing colours, and he touched the edge of a newly-green leaf. "That's," he stopped, paused, started again, "that's amazing."

Bucky didn't respond, just started loading the flowers into his bag, then pointed at it expectantly. Steve picked it up and followed as Bucky led the way out of the alley. 

 

* * *

 

Steve had taken a few days leave for this, tapping into the pool of vacation days he almost never used. Dumpster diving, playing pack mule for a necro— for Bucky, was not how Steve had expected to spend the day. In his defence, he'd tried not to bring any particular expectations with him, to keep his mind clear of any pre-conceived notions, because he knew there was no such thing as a good necromancer, no such thing as a harmless necromancer, not if they were using their powers.

It wasn't blind prejudice talking; it was experience. Vicious, violent, bloody experience. Every encounter with a necromancer always ended the same way.

Until now. 

Steve was committed to what he did for Shield. He believed in it. Believed in protecting people from harm, in stopping people from being hurt, in stopping the people doing the hurting, but right now he had a problem, because the rules were running up against what he believed.

He spent the day with Bucky, who was surprisingly easy to be with, even if he was ordering Steve around like he was Bucky's personal lackey. Steve took it with good grace. He'd forced his company on Bucky, Bucky wasn't in a position to say no, for Bucky, this had to feel like the next thing to a trial. If he wanted to assert some authority, wanted to tip the scales his way in whatever way he could, Steve wasn't going to argue.

The first time Bucky used his power, he'd been ready to react. Ready to fight. Fight what, he wasn't sure, but his body didn't care, offering up adrenaline and poised muscles and sharpened senses while Bucky's eyes turned ice-blue.

The only thing that had happened was the dead flowers Steve had dug out of the dumpster—and apart from the impossibility of the whole situation, Sam and Nat could _never_ find out he'd gone digging in a dumpster—had greened up. Had become half-way to beautiful.

It was astonishing.

They hit three more dumpsters in three more alleys. Bucky had obviously done this so often it was ingrained routine, which was one of the things Steve was looking for. That this wasn't a show he was putting on for Steve, something to fool him into thinking Bucky was harmless. That this really was his life.

When they made their last stop, Bucky carefully tucking the flowers away into the oversized bag Steve had been hauling around, Steve crouched across from him. Bucky looked at him warily.

"What's next?"

"Next is that I take them home and make them beautiful." Bucky's fingers were white around the handles of the bag and Steve thought he was waiting for Steve to demand Bucky take him home with him. To let him inside his house, inside his wards.

Steve wasn't going to do that. "And after that?"

"Are you asking for a play by play of my evening plans?"

"No, what happens next with the flowers?"

"Oh." Bucky rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Tomorrow I sell them."

"Can I join you for that?"

"Once again, can I stop you?"

"Honest answer?"

"I'd appreciate it."

"Then no, you can't. I'm putting a lot on the line, here, and I need to be sure."

Bucky met his eyes, searching, and Steve looked back, not trying to hide anything. Finally, Bucky nodded. "Meet me out front of the building at seven. I'll expect you to carry everything again."

"I can do both of those."

 

* * *

 

Steve was outside Bucky's building at quarter to seven the next morning, and once again the day didn't bring what Steve expected, even allowing for the lack of expectations he'd aimed for.

Loaded bag over his shoulder, he found himself following Bucky up the subway stairs and down the road to... "This is a hospital."

"Are all Shield agents as observant as you?"

It was dryly sarcastic, reminded him in a weird way of Nat, and Steve snorted. "Nah, they gave me special training. I can identify all sorts of things. Hospitals. Police Stations. I can even pick a library out of a crowd."

"Impressive. Guess you're not just a pretty face."

"You think my face is pretty?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "It's a figure of speech." They cut across the grass and through the parking lot to come to a stop at the edge of the path that would lead people from the lot into the hospital. "Here we are."

"Are you allowed to be here?" Steve asked as he set the bag down.

"Security doesn't mind." Bucky half-disappeared inside a particularly bushy shrub and came out with a milk crate. "Grab the blanket out of the bag and spread it out."

Steve did as he was told and Bucky plonked the milk crate on top of it, then started pulling out paper-wrapped bouquets. He stuck several through the holes in the bottom of the milk crate and laid the rest out on the blanket, then stuck a sign on the front of the milk crate. "Hope you brought a book."

Steve barely heard him. He was too busy staring at the flowers. "Are these..." He trailed off as he crouched down to touch them, running his fingers gently along a brilliant white petal.

"From yesterday?" Steve nodded. "Some of them."

"Bucky." His voice was soft; he barely recognised it. There were so many of them and they were all beautiful. He'd seen it once, that time in the alley, but there'd been too much adrenaline, too much anger, too much happening, to really take it in. Now, with nothing to distract him, he could really _see_ and they were gorgeous. He looked up and Bucky was shifting from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable. "These are beautiful."

"They're dead flowers," he ground out.

"I know, but." He shook his head. "They're beautiful."

"Yeah?" It was pure challenge. "And illegal. Immoral. _Wrong._ "

"Are they?" Steve wasn't sure. It was hard to think so.

"You tell me," Bucky said, and then there was a family approaching, two moms and a cute kid, and Bucky was selling them a bouquet and there was no more room for talking.

 

* * *

 

Watching Bucky interact with the people who stopped to buy his flowers was enlightening. He was charm personified, a little laughing, a little flirting, a little gentle sympathy—whatever fit who he was talking to, and they all responded, all seemed to leave a bit happier than they arrived. It also made his skin crawl, because Bucky wasn't wearing gloves and neither was anyone else. It wasn't like he touched people, he seemed to go out of his way not to, avoiding even glancing touches when he handed over flowers, while he took money, but still. It made Steve deeply uncomfortable.

Bucky sold out before noon, left with only a few errant petals, a few drifting leaves. "Busy day today," he said, with a long look at the hospital. He glanced at Steve, grimaced, then looked away. "I don't usually sell out that fast."

"Food?" Steve offered.

"That was my plan, if you're done with me."

"No, I'm offering to buy you lunch." That was definitely surprise on Bucky's face. "There's a diner not far from here. It's not fancy, but they make good food. Solid. This is optional," he added. "Completely your choice."

He waited while Bucky made up his mind. "Yeah, all right."

Steve folded the blanket and put it in the bag, then threw it over his shoulder while Bucky stowed the milk crate and for the first time Steve led the way, Bucky following.

The diner _wasn't_ fancy, but it'd been around for years and the food was reliable. Steve tucked the bag under the table, they shoved their feet underneath it, and when they ordered Bucky was clearly taking advantage of Steve paying to order extra, judging by the challenging look he shot Steve's way, but Steve didn't care.

They didn't talk while they waited for their food, just sat drinking coffee while Bucky studied the people in the diner and Steve surreptitiously studied Bucky.

Bucky, who wasn't hurting anyone. What he was doing was harmless. Yes, he was a necromancer, he was using his power, and that was against the law, but he was using it to raise _flowers_. 

Necromancers drained the life from people to fuel their power, but raising flowers—it would use such a tiny amount of magic, it wouldn't take more than what Bucky had inside. There was nothing _stopping_ Bucky from deciding to drain people's lives and raise the dead, but then again, there was nothing stopping Steve from using his Shield training and tools and wreaking destruction on this diner. He could kill a lot of people before anyone stopped him. Except—he glanced at Bucky over the top of his coffee—he had a gut feeling _Bucky_ would stop him. Steve was sure he'd at least try.

The only thing stopping Bucky from misusing his power was the same thing stopping Steve from misusing his: neither of them wanted to hurt people.

He couldn't bring Bucky in because he could _theoretically_ hurt people. Go down that path, and they'd end up punishing the entire world.  

His thoughts were interrupted by their food arriving. Bucky gave the server a brilliant smile. "Thanks."

"It's what they pay me for," the server replied, grinning back as he set down their food. "But you're welcome. Holler if you need anything else."

"We will," Bucky told him. When he was gone, and Steve imagined he could hear the table groaning under the weight of the food, he said, "I'll need him to come back for the doggy bag."

Steve chuckled and tucked into his mac and cheese while Bucky ate his burger, a huge serve of lasagne Steve knew was destined for a doggy bag steaming gently next to the onion rings and a salad. They ate in silence, but it wasn't precisely uncomfortable.

When they were done, and the server had come back and doggy-bagged Bucky's food, Bucky gave Steve a long look. "So. Did you learn what you needed to know?"

"I think so."

"You think so?" Bucky leaned forward, frustrated anger leaking into his voice even as it dropped into a harsh whisper. "You've seen what I do. That's it, that's everything. Rinse, repeat, begin again. What more could you possibly need from me?"

He raised his hands in a placating gesture, Bucky's frustration more than understandable. "I need to check something. Just a few more days."

Bucky looked away, but he gave a tight nod. They both knew he didn't actually have a choice. Steve wanted to apologise, but he knew that would only make things worse.

 

* * *

 

Shield made a point of giving every agent an office of their own. Unless you were Very Important, they tended to be on the small side and lack anything like a window, but Shield believed having a space of their own would encourage agents to do their paperwork. Despite growing evidence to the contrary.

Steve wasn't using his Shield computer, he was using his personal tablet, because however low the chances of someone drawing a link between plants and necromancers, he wasn't prepared to risk it. His tablet was propped against the boxy desktop as he fell farther and farther down the internet rabbit hole, and he jerked back, startled, as a stuffed penguin floated down in front of his eyes and began to twirl slowly.

He set his tablet face down on the desk and plucked the penguin out of the air.

"Don't you know penguins are flightless birds?" He spun around in his chair to find Sam grinning at him from the doorway.

"Excuse you, any penguin that belongs to me is going to learn how to fly."

"As long as you teach him how to stick the landing."

"Oh, you're funny. You're a real funny guy." Sam plonked into Steve's spare chair, crammed into the tiny space next to the desk. His leg was basically better, but he still had to take it easy. "So tell me funny guy, where have you been?"

"Here. Where you found me. Have you forgotten already?"

Sam rolled his eyes and the penguin began to twitch in Steve's hands, stubby little wings flapping as it tried to get away. Steve let it go and it shot straight up, did a loop-the-loop, a barrel roll, then landed on Sam's lap. "You've been scarce the last few days, is all. Just checking in to make sure everything all right with you."

"Yeah, everything's fine. I'm just working on a little side project."

"You need any help? You know me and Nat will give you anything you need."

"Nah, this one's pretty mundane. I'll call you in if I need magical back up, though." He pasted on his most earnest expression, widened his eyes. "I'm not sure golden retrievers know how to lie."

"Oh my god. You can't hold that against me. I was drugged to the eyeballs."

"Oh, I can. I can and I will."

"Well in that case, I'll leave you to it. You coming out for drinks tonight?"

"Yeah, what time?"

"You, me and Nat, I figure we can grab a bite at six, then meet up with everyone else at the bar at seven."

"Sounds good."

Sam levered himself out of the chair and headed for the door, the penguin flapping its little wings as it followed at his shoulder.

"Hey, Sam," he called when Sam reached the door. "What'd you name the penguin?"

"Nothing!" Sam called back. "Because I'm a grown-ass man who doesn't name stuffed animals." He shut the door very firmly behind him.

Steve counted down in his head and when he hit ten the door opened and Sam said, "Riley, and you can take that to your grave, thanks."

Steve laughed under his breath, flipped his tablet up, and went back to researching plants.

 

* * *

 

Bucky suffered an intense feeling of déjà vu when he slid off the side of the dumpster and found Steve leaning against the alley wall. He didn't react, at least not outwardly.

He also didn't say anything, just leaned down to stow his bundle of dead flowers in the bag. He watched Steve out of the corner of his eye while he did it, and he couldn't be one hundred percent sure, but he couldn't see any hints of gold that signalled the presence of a shield protecting Steve's face and neck.

He wasn’t sure what to think about that. Steve was still wearing gloves, long sleeves tucked into them, but it meant something if he'd left the skin of his face and neck unprotected. Bucky wasn't sure what, exactly, but it meant _something_.

When he stood, Steve said, "Did you know, no one can agree if cut flowers are actually dead?"

Bucky stared at him.

"Seriously, it's a huge thing. You wouldn't believe how many people are arguing about it. I mean, that's not unusual—pick a subject, people will argue about it online—but there's biologists, botanists, geneticists, actual experts weighing in."

Bucky kept staring at him.

"Which means I'm not sure what you're doing even counts, since no one's actually sure if cut flowers were ever dead in the first place."

"My power works on them. That means they're dead."

"Are you a scientist?"

"No."

"Then who can say for sure?"

Bucky made his voice firm. "What are you getting at?"

"I'm getting at that I'm not seeing anything that I'm sure is actually a breach of the law. I'm getting at that you're not hurting anyone. I'm getting at that I'm not turning you in, to Shield or anyone else. And I'm sorry," he squared his shoulders, "I'm sorry I made you wait so long."

The relief that tore through him nearly made him stagger. He put out a hand to steady himself on the dumpster. "Steve." Steve met his eyes. They were bright and clear and very blue. Steady and strong. Bucky didn't understand why he was doing this. "Is there something wrong with you?"

Steve slowly smiled and it kept growing until it turned into a grin. "No. Well, maybe, but not about this. My ma raised me to do what's right, and this is what's right."

Most of Bucky wanted to demand to know what the deal was, to demand to know what this was going to cost him when the bill came due. _This is what's right_ was naïve bullshit. No one really thought that way. No one acted that way. But a tiny, long-buried part of him looked into Steve's eyes, earnest and bright, and whispered that maybe he could believe.

"Hold out your hand?"

It took Bucky a second to realise what Steve was getting at. The tracker. "You're taking it off?"

"Of course."

The whisper got louder as he held out his hand, and a little louder still as this time Steve didn't hesitate to press his gloved fingers against the back of Bucky's hand. He whispered, " _Rejice_ ," and a wisp of pewter smoke rose into the air and puffed out of existence.

Steve looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he gave Bucky a nod, then turned and walked away, out of the alley.

Bucky watched him go. He was free. Free to run. Free to escape. Free to flee the city for parts unknown where Steve would never find him.

It wasn't the end after all.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky didn't run. He stayed. The city had, in some strange way, become his home, the first one he'd had since he was a kid. His apartment was shitty, but it was _his._ He had a life here, and maybe it was kind of a crappy one compared to most people's, but it was _his_.

His life, his home, his city.

Maybe he was taking a risk, but if he was it was his risk to take. Steve's too, really. If Steve changed his mind and turned him in, the longer he'd waited the worse it would go for him, but Bucky didn't think he would.

Bucky also didn't think he'd see Steve again. Oh, sure, maybe Steve would pop by once or twice a year, to make sure Bucky was still toeing the line, but that would be it.

Which was why Steve knocking on his door came as something of a shock.

The knock itself was a surprise, because people didn't. Bucky's wards flared, weaving themselves stronger in response to someone being so close, but they couldn't tell him who was knocking. _That_ wasn't a surprise; his wards could only identify someone they'd met before and Bucky wasn't exactly into entertaining.

He debated not answering, had basically decided not to, when he heard scrabbling and shifting, and a muttered curse followed by a thump and a sigh, and he recognised the voice.

Steve was outside his door doing...something.

Curiosity got the better of him and he opened the door, standing inside the wards and using his body to block the view into his apartment. There was a large cardboard box pushed against the wall, and Steve was walking away down the dim, musty hallway. "What?" Bucky asked and Steve turned around.

"Oh," he said, looking sheepish. Bucky frowned at him. "I, uh. I thought? They're flowers. They were going to get chucked out, so I grabbed them." Bucky frowned more, utterly perplexed. "For you?"

"You brought me a box of dead flowers."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I thought you could use them?"

Bucky squinted at him, because he couldn't figure this out. "Did you come down here to check on me?"

"What? No!" He looked so surprised, almost affronted, Bucky believed him, which meant he had to deal with the fact that Steve had brought him a box of dead flowers.

"Okay, I'm still having trouble with why?"

"I just…thought of you, and how you could make them into something beautiful, so they wouldn't go to waste." Steve considered the ceiling, Bucky could almost see him thinking, then he met Bucky's eyes with a wince. "I shouldn't have come here, should I?"

Bucky studied him while Steve squared his shoulders and lifted his chin like he was waiting for Bucky to tear him a new one. "No," he said after a minute, rolling the idea around in his head. "No, it's okay." And it was. Strange, inexplicable, and he still didn't understand what could possibly have prompted Steve to do it, but it felt okay. Mostly because Steve had realised it might not be. "Thanks for the flowers."

Steve relaxed, and his quick smile was warm and bright, as out of place in the grime and the mustiness as walking into a dark cave and finding the sun. He dipped his head in a quick nod, and turned away, heading for the stairs.

When he was gone, Bucky dragged the box inside. The flowers were definitely dead, and they were exotic, fancy, and the box was completely full. With these he'd be able to take it easy until the next selling days.

"Huh." He still wasn't entirely clear on the _why_ , but he was glad to have them.

 

* * *

 

The day was unseasonably cold, and Bucky's breath had curled in the air when he'd made his way to today's spot to set up. His flowers were his usual, dumpster-scavenged fare, the ones Steve had brought him a couple of weeks ago long since gone. They'd sold _fast_ , some people buying two bouquets: one for whoever they were visiting and one to take home.

Today's offerings weren't selling fast. They weren't even selling at their regular speed, but he figured that was more down to the lack of people than the flowers. Bucky had only sold about half his usual number of bouquets, people hurrying past with their heads down as they made their way into the hospital, more interested in getting out of the weather than in stopping to buy flowers.

He blew on his hands, trying to keep them warm, and wished for the seventh time today that he'd brought some gloves. He didn't understand why it was so damn cold. It was supposed to be spring, hell spring was almost over, they were well past cold-snap weather, it should be _warm_ , and here he was freezing his fingers off.

He rubbed his hands together and crossed his arms so he could shove them under his armpits, then hunched against the breeze. _This is stupid. I should pack it up and go home._

A coffee cup appeared in his vision, black gloved fingers wrapped around it, and he scowled. Now he was being taunted. _Fucking rude._ He followed the fingers to a sweater clad arm, and kept following until he was looking at Steve. Steve's head was tilted to the side, and he gestured with the coffee. "Here, take it. You look like you're about to freeze to death."

He should probably demand to know what Steve was doing here. He should probably refuse to accept the coffee on principle. Instead he reached out for it, taking care to avoid touching his gloved hand, and wrapped both his bare hands around it, feeling the heat seeping into his bones.

"Milk and two sugars, right?" Steve asked.

Bucky tried to look suspicious. It was hard when his hands were finally warm and all he felt was happy about it.

"I remember from the diner."

"Aren't you just full of surprises." Bucky took a sip of coffee, then a gulp, then another, it spiralled through him, hot and perfect, and he felt himself thawing from the inside. "Don't suppose you know why it's so ever-loving cold?"

"I shouldn't tell you," Steve fixed him with a considering look, then nodded, "but as long as you keep it to yourself?" He paused, and Bucky nodded, because who exactly was he going to tell? "Turns out our lovely city's home to a recently manifested teenage elementalist with an affinity for cold."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. "And they changed the weather?"

"Not on purpose."

"How do you change the weather by accident?"

Steve gazed up into the sky, as if asking for patience, and when he met Bucky's eyes again they were dancing with amusement. "You really hate warm weather, you decide to use your power to cool your place down, and you forget to put a boundary on it."

"You're _kidding_."

Steve shook his head.

"Wow."

"I know. They felt _terrible_ once we arrived and explained what was happening, and N— One of our agents talked them through reversing it. Everything should be back to normal in a couple of days. We're going to talk to them about coming into Shield to get some training, since they're that powerful so young."

"Yeah." Bucky looked away and picked at the rim of his coffee cup, some of the warmth fading. "Yeah," he cleared his throat and made himself smile, "that'd be a good idea. It'd be good if they have someone helping them out."

Steve was watching him, something in his eyes like _concern_ , and he didn't like it, it made him want to run in a way nothing else had done so far. He gave himself a mental shake. "I think I'll pack up for the day."

"You want a hand?"

"No, I'm good," he said. "You keep on fighting the good fight, or whatever it was you were doing before you violated Shield confidentiality."

"Less fighting the good fight, more checking in on my neighbour. She tripped over her cat," Steve added. "And I'm pretty sure I'm next, I swear that thing can teleport right under your feet. But I saw you and you looked cold." Steve hesitated, then nodded. "See you, Bucky."

Bucky didn't say anything, just watched him go.  

 

* * *

 

Steve hadn't been looking for Bucky when he'd seen him at the hospital. He'd taken Danielle, his neighbour with the possibly-a-murderous cat, to the hospital to get her ankle checked out. Danielle wasn't just his neighbour. She was the reason he'd had a box of dead flowers to give Bucky in the first place. The hotel she was the night manager at prided themselves on their fresh flowers, changing them out once a week. He'd been at the right place at the right time to get them for Bucky.

He'd had been killing time at the hospital, waiting for Danielle to be finished, when he'd seen Bucky. It had been pure coincidence. The coffee hadn't been pure coincidence; when Steve had seen him, he'd detoured to buy it for him, because Bucky had looked cold and because Steve had wanted to.

Two weeks later, Danielle offered Steve another box of flowers if he wanted them, sounding baffled as to _why_ he'd want them, but not asking any questions (Steve was the only one willing to feed her assassin cat when she went on holidays; for that she'd be prepared to overlook far stranger behaviour). Steve didn't want to pass them up, it'd save Bucky having to dig through dumpsters, but showing up at Bucky's apartment again _wouldn't_ be a coincidence. That first time, Bucky had said it was okay, but Steve felt like doing it again, showing up without permission, even if he was bringing Bucky something he could use, wouldn't be all right.

This time he'd ask first. Which presented its own challenges, but if Bucky stuck to his routine, Steve should be able to find him.

Steve made sure he wasn't silent as he came down the alley, but there was no sign of Bucky. He flipped back the lid of the dumpster to check, and it still held its load of dead flowers, so he shrugged and started pulling them out, piling them on the ground. He was still at it when someone cleared their throat. He whirled around, and there was Bucky, leaning on the wall, obviously amused.

"You know, if you're going to horn in on my territory, I might have to take steps to defend it."

"I had to do something while I was waiting for you."

"Did we have a date? You have to tell me these things if you expect me to turn up on time."

Steve laughed. "No, I wanted to offer you another box of dead flowers, if you're interested."

" _If I'm interested_...That last one had some great stuff in it, stuff I've never seen before. They sold fast. I'd take another box like that if you're offering." Steve found himself caught by Bucky's blue-grey eyes, his gaze intent. "But you've got to let me give you something for them."

"I don't need anyt—" Bucky's eyes narrowed. Steve took a breath and abandoned that line, opting for what felt like truth. "I owe you."

"How do you figure that?"

"I made you wait."

"You made me wait."

"Yeah. I made you wait too long for an answer about what I was going to do, and that wasn't fair. I can't imagine what that was like, and a couple of boxes of dead flowers can't make up for it, but…" Bucky folded his arms, obviously waiting to see what he was going to come up with, and Steve groped for the right words, came up with exactly nothing, and finally said, "But it's all I've got." It hadn't been why he'd brought Bucky the first box. He hadn't really known why he'd brought Bucky the first box. He hadn't thought much beyond: Bucky could use those. Now that he was thinking about it, what he'd said felt true. It didn't feel complete, maybe, but he wasn't sure he wanted to examine that too closely. "Will you take them?"

"I'll take them."

"Great." Relief whooshed through him and he tried to hide it, but given the amused tilt to Bucky's lips, he was guessing he failed. "I can meet you outside your place Saturday night to hand them over, if that works for you?"

"Should be fine. Why didn't you just bring them by?"

"I'd prefer to meet you, if that's alright."

"The hallway scared you, huh? You know the mould's not _really_ alive, right?"

"Some risks I'm not willing to take. Nine thirty work for you?"  

"Sounds good."

 

* * *

 

Saturday night, Steve picked the dead flowers up with no hassles, catching a ride to the hotel with Danielle. He was sure the kitchen staff were having a laugh at a grown man looking so pleased at being given a box of dead flowers, but it didn't worry him, just like it didn't worry him to have to tuck the box awkwardly out of the way on the subway, because he couldn't exactly strap it to the back of his bike.

He sat on the subway, half-listening to the sound of the conversations around him—not the words, but the ebb and flow of voices, of emotions, the give and take of people living their lives, like putting his ear to a seashell and hearing the ocean—and stared at his gloves.

They were wrong. Not the gloves themselves; they were made from the softest leather and almost sinfully comfortable. What was wrong was what they said.

What was wrong was what they said to Bucky.

It still sent a tiny chill up his spine, the idea of going without them, but he didn't think the cold had anything to do with _Bucky_. It was ingrained wariness, not quite fear, born of the knowledge of what a necromancer could do, what they would do, once they got their hands on your skin.

Except that wasn't Bucky. Bucky didn't need that for the tiny amount of magic he used, and Bucky wouldn't. Steve had made his choice to leave Bucky free. Steve had made the decision, for himself and for every person on this train and for everyone walking around in the city, that Bucky wasn't a danger. That, unlike any necromancer he'd ever encountered or ever heard of, Bucky wouldn't hurt anyone. But here he was, still covered up.

He'd left off the magi-shield, but that didn't mean much. His face, his neck, those weren't particularly vulnerable. Someone going for those, it wasn't the kind of thing that could happen casually, but his hands, his arms? They were different. They'd be vulnerable if they were uncovered. Keeping them covered was basically saying he _expected_ Bucky to turn on him.

Jaw set, Steve peeled off his left glove. He peeled off the right. Then he shoved them both in his back pocket and pushed his sleeves up to the elbow.

His heart beat a little faster, but he told it to shut up.    

                                                      

* * *

 

Bucky sat on the steps outside his building, whistling tunelessly, leaning back on his elbows, feeling like he was waiting for the world's lamest secret agent meeting.

A couple of people walked past, obviously engaged in some sort of deal, but Bucky did them the courtesy of not noticing, and they returned the favour. It was that kind of neighbourhood.

Finally, Steve appeared, walking down the street carrying a decent sized box.

He wasn't wearing gloves.

He passed under a streetlight, illuminated like a slightly dishevelled angel, wearing a shirt that was a little too tight. Under other circumstances and on anyone else, it would have held Bucky's attention, but all Bucky could see were Steve's bare hands and the long length of his bare forearms, because his sleeves were pushed up almost to his elbows.

Steve might as well have been screaming _you don't scare me_ at the top of his lungs. It would have been about as subtle. _Fucking goddamn hell._ Maybe he was using magic instead? Bucky couldn't see a golden shimmer, the tell-tale presence of a magical shield—and it would have been impressive if Steve had one over his hands, over his arms, since they were next to impossible to hold over somewhere that moved that much—but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

Bucky went to meet him. Steve set the box down, smile fading as Bucky fixed him with a gimlet stare. "No gloves."

"No."

"No sleeves."

"No."

"Magic?"

A strange smile drifted across Steve's face, there and gone, and he shook his head.

Bucky let out a long slow breath. "Why?"

"Do I need them?"

Bucky scowled at him. Steve's eyes brightened, or maybe it was just the streetlight's reflection. Bucky scowled harder. The corner of Steve's mouth twitched. Bucky looked away and gave one hard shake of his head.

"Okay then," Steve said, like they'd made some kind of pact.

"Okay." He felt like someone had picked him up by the head and the feet and twisted his emotions into a corkscrew. He looked down at the box at Steve's feet. "You right to keep carrying it?"

"Sure. I'm beginning to think carrying stuff for you's my new mission in life." Steve hefted it into his arms and followed Bucky, steps faltering a little as Bucky led him into the building and down the questionable steps and into the more than questionable hallway, stopping outside his door.

Bucky didn't turn, didn't take his eyes off the door, as he asked, "Do you want to come in?"

He felt Steve's shock and had a moment of intense satisfaction. _Now you know how it feels, 'cause I'm not scared of you, either._

"Bucky, you don't have to do that." There was a pause. "You know that, right?"

The careful, almost gentle way Steve spoke was entirely unexpected, and it swirled through him. "I do know that." He'd known it before Steve said it. He wasn't doing this because he had to. He wasn't even doing it entirely to prove a point, to prove to Steve that he was just as not-scared of him as he wasn't of Bucky.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. _You_ might not be once you see the place. It's not exactly a show room."

"In that case, I'd love to."

"Okay, then."

"Okay."

He unlocked the door and stood back, reaching out to his wards to say: _this is Steve. Don't fry him when he comes in._

Steve hesitated. "I'm guessing you've got wards?"

Bucky gave him a strange look, because that was a weird question. "You can't see them?"

"No."

That was even weirder. "Of course I have wards. I told them to let you through, so you're good to come in."

Steve walked through the door, pleased surprise appearing on his face as he passed through the wards and Bucky felt them wrap around Steve, rubbing against him like a friendly cat. "They're warm. They feel…happy?" He looked to Bucky for confirmation.

"Yeah, they've got a little too much personality," he grumbled as he shut the door, and carefully didn't mention that it was probably (definitely) his fault.

When he turned around, Steve had set the box down and was looking around his apartment. Bucky felt himself tense, because he knew what it looked like, he knew what it was—a one room shithole filled with battered, worn, scavenged furniture, no matter how much he tried to take care of it—but Steve didn't seem to be judging him.

"It smells like flowers," Steve said, and Bucky huffed a laugh, tension draining away.

"Yeah. Not surprising, really. Grab a seat."   

Steve sat in the fat armchair and Bucky went to the strip of kitchen. "Coffee? Beer? Water? I can probably wrangle up some tea, but last time I tried there was a dead moth stuck to one of the tea bags, so I'd advise against it."

"Coffee's good, black's fine."

"Coffee it is."

Bucky busied himself making coffee and when it was done he set Steve's mug on the floor, _because he wasn't wearing gloves_ , _the idiot,_ and Bucky wouldn't risk it, and sat on the edge of the bed. Steve picked it up off the floor, wrapped his fingers around it, took a sip, and considered Bucky for a long moment. It went on long enough that Bucky was on the verge of uncomfortable, ready to break the silence himself, when Steve said, "I'm a null."

"What?" He wasn't asking for a repeat; he'd heard what Steve had said, he knew what the words meant, but dropped like that, with no context and no emotion? He was pretty sure he must have heard wrong.

"I'm a null. No magic. That's why I couldn't see your wards."

He hadn't heard wrong. "But—" He stopped. Steve couldn't be a null. He was a Shield agent for a start. And he'd... Bucky frowned. No. Steve had never actually used magic. He'd used physical spells. He'd used trigger words. There was the shield he'd used to protect the skin of his face and neck, but it could have been set in something physical, same as the tracker… Well, at least Steve's strange smile when Bucky had asked if he was using magic to protect himself instead of gloves and sleeves made sense. "How...?"

"How what? How am I a Shield agent? How do I manage? How do I cope? There's a lot of potential _hows_ , Bucky. I'm gonna need you to be more specific."

There was a wash of amusement in Steve's voice, but underneath he was wary. Bucky could see it: Steve's eyes were hooded, his fingers gripped the mug, his shoulders were tight, and he wondered why Steve had bothered telling him at all if Steve was that worried about how he was going to react. Mentioning the wards had been pointless. Bucky wouldn't have known Steve couldn't see them. Asking if Bucky had wards had been stupid. _Everyone_ had wards. It was...

Bucky wanted to smack himself in the forehead as the world reorientated itself. It made no sense, but at the same time it was obvious—once you knew how to look at it. He'd brought Steve into his _home_ (Steve saying, _You don't have to do that._ Steve saying, _You know that, right?_ Steve saying, the first time he'd shown up with a box of dead flowers, _I shouldn't have come here, should I?)._

Steve was trying to give him something in return. Bucky wasn't sure whether he wanted to tear his hair out, because the world didn't work like that, or wrap Steve in a damn blanket, _because the world didn't work like that_.

He stared at Steve's bare hands, wrapped around the coffee mug, and the thought tickled the back of his mind that maybe they weren't screaming _You don't scare me._

Maybe they were screaming _I trust you with this._

It felt right. Steve wasn't throwing his weight around, wasn't bullying and bravado, and they usually went hand in hand with the kind of people who screamed about not being scared. Steve was sitting quietly in his apartment, revealing things about himself he had no reason to reveal. Making himself vulnerable when had no reason to do it. Bucky was sure he was right. It scared him, the idea of Steve trusting him with all that exposed skin, the weight of it curdling in his gut. It meant he'd have to be responsible for both of them.

His gaze flicked up to Steve's, who was watching him carefully, waiting for his reaction. Steve, who'd told him he was a null—and Bucky _did_ know how some people would react to that revelation, because the world was full of actual assholes—because he wanted to offer Bucky something to match what Bucky had offered him. _For fuck's sake, Steve. Like all that skin on show, skin I could touch before you could stop me, doesn't balance out almost anything,_ and it didn't matter that he wouldn't; it mattered that he _could_.

Bucky didn't take a deep breath, but he let himself have the mental equivalent before he spoke. "I was _going_ to say _how didn't I notice_ ," Bucky said, taking a long sip of coffee and giving Steve a quelling look over the edge of his mug. "Not everything's about you."

Steve's eyebrows shot up and then he grinned, wariness fading. "Oh, excuse me."

"I'll think about it." He balanced his mug on his thigh. "Seriously, though. A Shield agent with no magic? That's got to be a challenge."

"Yes and no." Steve lifted one shoulder. "I've got mundane weapons. I've got a good team and friends who make spells for me, like the tracker. I've got gear like the," he moved his hand in an arc over his head, "magi-shield. And not having magic, sometimes it's an advantage. It means you look at things a different way, it makes it easier to take everything into account, instead of making plans that only work for one kind of power." He smiled into his coffee. "And when all else fails, punching people really hard is surprisingly effective."

It surprised a laugh out of Bucky. "I bet it is." He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for telling me."

Steve lifted one shoulder, like it had been nothing and looked at from one angle, maybe it had been, but Bucky couldn’t quite see it that way. Mulling it over, swirling his coffee and staring into his mug like he'd suddenly manifested precog powers and the brown liquid would show him the future, he made a decision. "In the interests of full disclosure," Steve tilted his head slightly, attention completely focused on Bucky, and it was disconcerting, being under the onslaught of that intense blue, "I lied to you."

It would be fascinating to watch Steve shift from Steve the man to Steve the Shield agent if it was pointed at someone else. As it was, pointed at him, Bucky was rapidly reconsidering his decision. He was sure it was only a partial shift, and there was worry, or maybe it was concern, in Steve's eyes, but it was enough to make him hurriedly add, "It's nothing bad. You think I'd be telling you if it was something bad?" Both of Steve's eyebrows went up, but he relaxed a little. "Not that there's anything bad to tell, it's just, I told you back at the beginning that _all_ I did was raise dead flowers, and that was," he ran a hand through his hair, wondering why he'd thought this was a good idea, "not the whole truth."

"Okay," Steve said neutrally, and it was Steve the man again, no sign of Steve the Shield agent, like Bucky had said _it's nothing bad_ and Steve had just believed him. "What is the whole truth?"

"Sometimes after I pack up I use a don't-notice-me spell on myself and go into the hospital," he rubbed a hand over his face, because that didn't sound good, "and walk through the floors, perking up people's flowers, so they'll last a little longer."

He risked a glance at Steve. He looked… Bucky frowned. His eyes were soft. "You know those spells are mostly illegal, right?" Steve asked, but he didn't sound worried about it.

"As opposed to everything else."

"Good point, sorry." Steve leaned forward. Bucky leaned back, shifting down the bed a little. "You didn't really lie. You were still using your power to raise dead flowers. You were just sneaking through the hospital making strangers' flowers look nice again. Have I got that right?"

"I guess so."

"Can I ask why?"

Bucky shrugged. "I have to do something with my time."

"Right, of course."

Steve was trying not to smile; Bucky could see it at the corners of his eyes, at the edges of his mouth. "I also saw you before. Before you caught me in the alley. I saw you in the hospital, in your uniform."

That gave Steve pause, and he looked thoughtful. "So you knew I was Shield."

"Yeah."

"That explains why you didn't ask for ID."

"What?"

"Well, I wondered. I said I was Shield, but you let me put a tracker on you without making me prove it. I could have been anyone." Steve grinned and sipped his coffee. "I could have been twenty-seven lemmings in a trench coat."

"You weren't wearing a trench coat."

"Still. It was pretty careless of you."

"Maybe it would have been." He folded his arms. "Except I _did_ know what you were."

"Whatever you say, Bucky."

 

* * *

 

 

They ended up ordering pizza, which Steve insisted on paying for over Bucky's grumbling protests. He only gave in when Steve said, "You can get the next one," and Bucky was agreeing before he'd worked through the implications: that there would be a next one.

It sat uneasily under his ribs until the pizza arrived, and they ended up eating all of it while Steve sat in the armchair with no gloves and his pushed-up sleeves—too much skin and no magic at all—laughing at Bucky's stories, and the uneasy feeling faded like it had never been.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Steve was comfortable with Bucky. He probably shouldn't be, given Bucky was a necromancer, but somehow it faded out of his awareness when he was sitting with Bucky in his tiny apartment. He didn't think it faded out of Bucky's awareness. Bucky wouldn’t hand him anything, he always set it on the floor, and he was incredibly wary of touching Steve, of Steve touching him.

Somehow that wariness only reinforced the rightness of Steve's decision, and it started tickling the edge of his protective instincts. He tried to clamp down on those, since both Sam and Nat warned him they could get out of hand, but he didn't bother to try and fight the fact that he liked Bucky.

He kept himself from going over the top with it, because he knew he still had to feel like the sword hanging over Bucky's head, and Bucky couldn’t know Steve would never change his mind, not unless Bucky went off the rails.

He kept his visits to a minimum, he always made sure it was okay to come back, and he never arrived empty-handed. The first time Steve showed up after the time with the flowers and pizza, Bucky had given him a long thoughtful look. Steve had been struck with uncertainty. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe last time had been a one-off. Maybe this had been a mistake. He'd been ready to shove the food at Bucky and retreat, when Bucky had grinned at him.

"Calm down, you look like you think I'm about to bite your head off."

"It crossed my mind?"

"Maybe it depends on what's in the bag." Bucky had leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, but Steve hadn't felt unwelcome. It had felt a bit like a test, but one he couldn't really fail.

"Fish and chips."

"Really?"

"It's good, trust me. I know the best place. And there's vinegar for the fries. And mayo."

Bucky's nose had wrinkled in obvious disgust. "You don't put mayo on fries."

"Bucky," Steve had said earnestly. "I'm about to change your life."

Bucky had stood back and waved him inside, his wards wrapping warmly around Steve as he'd passed through, and they'd spent the evening arguing about what was and was not a normal food combination, Bucky begrudgingly admitting that mayo on fries was acceptable. Barely. It had been fun, the food had been good, and when Steve had left, he'd asked, "Can I come back sometime?" and Bucky had said, "Sure."

Steve showed up semi-regularly and he brought food. Very occasionally, when he could tee up with Danielle, he'd bring dead flowers. Bucky would roll his eyes, because he'd told Steve he didn't need to bring anything, but he'd wave him inside. Sometimes, when he had time during the day, Steve would swing by where he knew Bucky would be selling flowers and see if he wanted to get coffee or grab a bite.

He didn't do it very often, he didn't abuse his privilege, and it felt like a privilege, like something Bucky had given him, and he didn't want to wear out his welcome, because he'd miss Bucky if he couldn't see him anymore.

 

* * *

 

While Steve had been taking care not to visit Bucky too often, _not too often_ turned out to be often enough to draw attention.

He was sitting at a table in the Shield cafeteria, contemplating something that purported to be stroganoff, but was making Steve wonder if Shield had been infiltrated by aliens. Not that Shield—or anyone else—had ever discovered aliens, but Steve thought maybe aliens had discovered them, and here they were on the table in front of him.

Experimentally, he poked the purported stroganoff with a fork. "Huh," he said when it didn't grab his fork and poke him back.

"Talking to your food?" Nat asked as she sat next to him with a bowl of soup that actually looked like soup, but then she'd always been better at navigating the horrors of the cafeteria.

"I think it might be an alien."

She contemplated it. "I can see that. Do you think antagonising it's the way to go?"

"Just letting it know we aren't pushovers." He grinned at her. "Wouldn't want them to think it'd be easy to take over the planet."

"You want them to know that we'll fork them up?" she asked, elbow on the table, head in her hand, expression innocent.

Steve huffed a laugh and her eyes gleamed. Half of Shield was terrified of her, the other half was terrified and turned on, and almost no one seemed to realise that most of the time she was screwing with them. It was amazing. "Hi Nat."

"Hi Steve. Nice to see you gracing us with your presence."

He lifted an eyebrow in question.

"I feel like we don't see you as much as we used to."

"I'm sorry, was that someone else's couch I crashed on the night before last because it was too late to be bothered going home?"

She waved her spoon in the air. "Details." She scooped a spoonful of soup, sipped it, then said, "No judgement, but you _haven't_ been around as much."

"No, I've been, uh, doing stuff."

"Doing stuff." She shook her head, radiating disappointment, and Steve hunched his shoulders, because she was right. _Doing stuff_ couldn’t have been more perfectly crafted to spark her curiosity if he'd tried.

If it were anyone else, if the circumstances were different, he could just say _I met someone and I've been spending time with them_ , and then explain _no,_ _not like that_ , because he knew what that sounded like _._ Except Nat would ask _who_ , and _how_ , and she'd _be interested_ , because she was his friend and she cared and she was curious as a cat, and he could not tell her about Bucky.

He'd briefly wondered if he _could_ tell Sam and Nat, because keeping secrets from them felt strange; it had taken him less than a second to know he couldn't. He could never tell them. He couldn’t, because had to protect Bucky, and he couldn't know, not for sure, which way they'd go. And he couldn't tell them because he had to protect _them_. Every day he didn't turn Bucky over to Shield was a day he was risking his career and possibly his freedom. He couldn't make that choice for Sam and Nat.

He'd been silent for too long, and she was watching him carefully. "Made a new friend?" she teased, but it was gentle.

"Something like that," he said helplessly.

She didn't push, just smiled and sipped her soup, and said, "We're here if you need us," and he remembered all over again why he loved her.   

 

* * *

 

Bucky was half-asleep, curled up on his bed, paying vague attention to the book propped in his hand, when the wards perked up, bouncing like an excited puppy, letting him know _Steve was here, Steve was outside_.

Steve was the first person, apart from his landlord, he'd ever let inside his wards. They liked Steve. They didn't like his landlord; they'd sparked and hissed and scratched at him like a pissed off cactus. Steve they practically tried to follow home.

It made him want to laugh. Every time Steve had come by, Bucky's wards had become a little more attached to him—literally, flowing over him and around him when he came through the door. Steve couldn’t see them, he couldn't talk to them, but you didn't need magic to feel wards, and his wards were far too affectionate when it came to Steve.

 _Steve_. Steve was… Bucky didn't know. He was a necromancer who raised dead flowers and sold them on the street. Considered objectively, and measured in terms of its strangeness, he'd thought that, on most strangeness scales, it would rate fairly high. Once he added in: caught by a Shield agent and let go, that pushed _strange_ into unknown heights. He'd thought nothing would ever top it.

Yet here he was, ascending to new planes of strangeness, because he thought, and he wasn't sure, he kept niggling at the feeling like a sore tooth—worse, like the hole left behind after a sore tooth got pulled, and you couldn't keep your tongue out of it, no matter how weird it felt—but he thought he was starting to think Steve—the Shield agent who'd let him go—was something like a friend.

He wasn't sure, it'd been so long since he'd had one. _And isn't that sad,_ he thought, laughing silently at himself.

Steve knocked on the door and Bucky rolled off the bed, stowing his book under his pillow, and went to let him in. The wards gleefully obeyed when Bucky told them to let Steve through, wrapping around him like a basket of exuberant kittens as he walked inside. Bucky was surprised they didn't purr.

"Hi," Steve said with a surprised laugh.

"Was that for me or the wards?"

"Your wards, I think. Are they this happy to see everyone?"

Bucky lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, because he didn't feel like admitting Steve was the only one who'd really had a chance to find out. "What brings you here tonight?"

"Indian isn't meant to be eaten alone." Steve held up the bags he was carrying. "Join me?"

"You should know by now I'm never going to say no to free food." It actually rubbed against him like fingernails down a chalkboard to accept anything for free, but he was starting to get used to it from Steve. It was something about the way Steve gave it, or something about the way Steve shared it, like he was getting something from giving it, like he was getting something from showing up and sharing it with Bucky, that made it okay.

"I'm a slow learner," Steve said as he followed Bucky to the kitchen. Just like always, he took a long breath. He probably thought he was being subtle. Bucky had figured out it wasn't anything to do with trying to work out if Bucky's place was clean; it was because he liked the smell of the flowers. There were a fair few around the place at the moment, since it was the middle of Bucky's collection days. Just like always, after his not at all subtle breathing, Steve relaxed, like the flower-smell was some sort of drug.

It was weird. But then Steve was weird.

Bucky started digging plates out of the kitchen cupboard while Steve pulled containers out of the bag and put them on the counter. The smells were overwhelming, the spices blending with the floral scent. "It smells amazing."

"I know. I love this place. They're tiny, but they make the best food."

"I swear, you must know every take-away joint in the city."

"I don't really cook, and I like variety, so I do know a lot of them."

Bucky didn't really cook, either, but he generally made do with sandwiches and whatever magic he could work with noodles and rice. He wouldn’t admit it, but Steve's insistence on always showing up with food had done wonders for the variety in his diet.

They dished up the food in silence, and Steve slid a paper bag across the counter towards him. "Thought you might like this." He picked up the bag and peered inside. "Naan, stuffed with potatoes."

"Nice." Bucky pulled himself up to sit on the counter, crossed his legs, and snagged his plate, balancing it on his thigh. Steve sat on the counter that made a dog-leg in a half-hearted attempt to separate the strip of kitchen from the rest of the apartment. "Thanks."

They'd fallen into the habit of eating in the kitchen, and maybe Bucky should see about trying to scrounge some chairs for his battered table, but Steve didn't seem fazed by sitting on the counter, and he couldn't make sidewalk furniture just _happen_. He'd keep an eye out, though.

He stopped, a samosa halfway to his mouth, sauce dripping down his hand, at the thought.

He was planning. He was planning for a future that had Steve in it. He was contemplating making changes to his life to accommodate him. Not major life changes, only possibly getting some damn chairs, but still. He slowly set the samosa down on his plate and licked the sauce off the back of his hand.

Steve didn't seem to notice Bucky had stopped eating, but he noticed when Bucky put his plate on the counter.

"Full?" he asked doubtfully, because Bucky's plate wasn't even half empty and Bucky could put away food like he'd never eaten before.

"No."

"Okay." Steve set his food aside and sat up straighter. "What's up?"

"I need you to tell me something. And I need you to tell me the truth."

"I might not be able to. If it's something to do with Shield—"

"No, nothing like that." Bucky leaned forward, hands on his thighs. "Why do you keep visiting me?"

Steve blinked at him.

"You're a Shield agent. I'm a rogue necromancer."

"Bucky, you're not—"

"Steve." Steve subsided. "It's what I am. Spin all the bullshit you want about plants not being dead, we both know you should have taken me in."

Before his eyes, Steve changed. He seemed to get bigger, taller, his eyes grew hard, his hands curled into the hint of fists, but Bucky didn't feel threatened. Steve was the picture of _threat_ , but it wasn't aimed at him. "You're not hurting anyone. You're not doing anything wrong."

"That doesn't change anything."

"It changes _everything_." Steve's voice was fierce. "It changes everything."

"You get to pick and choose the laws you enforce?"

"If they're bad laws. If they're laws that'll hurt instead of help." 

"What would happen if everyone started doing that?"

"I don't know, Bucky. I can only do what's right for me." Bucky opened his mouth, but Steve skewered him with a look. "Couple of things to think about before you keep going?"

Bucky closed his mouth and cocked his head.

"One, that plant argument is a damn good argument, and it's not me saying it, it's actual scientists." Bucky scoffed, but he didn't say anything. "And two, you realise you're sitting here arguing that I should take you in?" Steve's voice gentled as he added, "You're kinda making my point for me."

Bucky looked away. He'd been arguing Steve should take him in. _What the hell was wrong with him?_ "Shit."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, an amused lilt to his voice. "Bucky." The way Steve said his name, strong, serious, deep, drew his eyes back. "If you ever go bad, if you ever start using your power to hurt people, I'll stop you. I won't hesitate. But," Steve's hands twitched, like he was going to reach out, and Bucky automatically leaned back, tucked his hands tight against his stomach, and Steve's stayed where they were, "but you won't."

Unfamiliar warmth flowed through him and he looked away, poked at the samosa sitting on his plate. "You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"Why do you keep visiting me?"

"What can I say? You're good company."

"Now that is a dammed lie."

Steve grinned. "Maybe I like sarcastic assholes."

"Sad, Steve. That's very sad." He couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips.

"Bucky?" Suddenly serious, Steve said, "If you want me to stop, if you want me to stay away, tell me and I won't bother you again."

"You can keep bothering me." He grabbed his plate and settled in to eat. "Maybe I like sarcastic assholes, too." Steve followed his lead, and they ate in comfortable silence.

When they'd finished eating, Bucky gracelessly flopped off the counter, biting back a groan because he'd eaten way too much, and gestured at Steve to give him his plate.

Steve held it above his head. "Nope. Go sit down. You look like you're about to explode and that's frankly not something I want on my conscience or on myself. I'll wash up."

"You're a," he stopped, rolled the words around in his head for a second, then with a mental shrug let them out into the world, "guest, sort of. I may not be up on my social niceties, but I'm sure there's something in there about guests, especially guests who brought food, not having to wash dishes."

"I think the guest part's cancelled out when the person who brings the food keeps showing up uninvited."

Bucky thought about arguing, then oozed across the floor to flop down onto his bed. "In that case, guest status revoked. Just do a good job on the dishes or I'll dock your pay."

Steve laughed softly and Bucky wriggled around so he could lean against the wall. Someday he was going to live somewhere big enough to have a couch instead of a single scrounged armchair, but it wasn't like he was going to let _Steve_ sit on his bed.

Eyes half-lidded, he listened to the sound of Steve washing up in the strip of kitchen and thought about various things. His routine tomorrow, hoping the rain was going to hold off. Whether he was going to have enough money to pay everything this month. What Steve had said about staying away if Bucky wanted him to.

He shifted his gaze to Steve's back, watching him move with confidence in Bucky's tiny kitchen, stacking the few dishes they'd used in the drainer next to the sink. Bucky didn't want him to stay away. Bucky liked him. Bucky liked having him here. Not as much as his wards did, but yeah.

That was something to think about.


	7. Chapter 7

The desert was blindingly bright, a white heat haze painting illusory silver over the horizon, hawks circling on the thermals high overhead, and Steve threw himself backwards to avoid the sweep of the bowie knife that would have opened his guts if it made contact. The man wielding it had hair as grey as a dove's wing, bronzed skin tough as leather and wrinkled from years in the sun, and the knife moved like it was part of him. Steve kept backpedalling, moving defensively, because he wasn't willing to hurt him.

Foresight had brought Shield to this small town on the desert's edge with reports of fighting and death and danger. Ordinary intelligence had confirmed something wasn't right.

 _Wasn't right_ proved to be horrifying understatement. The town had fallen victim to a soulbinder. She'd arrived months ago, moving in on the tiny desert town. Isolated, with a small, scattered population, she'd gradually taken over until she'd controlled them all, and she'd turned them into living dolls.

The townsfolk currently throwing themselves at Shield with single-minded intensity were victims. No one was prepared to hurt them any more than they had to. It was immobilise, trap, hold at bay or avoid while the soulbinder was hunted down. Steve twisted, took a shallow slice on his upper arm in trade for catching the man's wrist and twisting, forcing him to drop the knife. Behind him, behind the fighting, smoke rose from the town. When her fate had become clear the soulbinder had turned to fire and death and before she'd turned her soulbound victims on Shield she'd turned them on each other.

"I've got her," Sam called, circling high in the thermals with the hawks. "I'm taking the shot."

The air whistled around him as he dove, and a high-pitched scream filled the air as the soulbinder died.

The man Steve had been fighting went still as stone, swayed on his feet. Steve clutched his arms, held them hard, and waited. The satisfaction of the soulbinder's death was tempered by what he knew was coming.

The man's eyes cleared and he frowned, confused, glancing around. For a few seconds, he offered Steve a cautious, baffled smile, the kind you'd give to a large uniformed stranger who'd appeared from nowhere and was holding you in place. It hurt Steve's heart, but he made himself smile back, because it was a bare moment of peace before memory flooded him and his face twisted in horror. He threw himself against Steve's grip, trying to get away, but whipcord muscle was no match for Steve's strength and Steve's determination and he collapsed, body wracked with desperate sobs.

Steve held onto him, hanging on as tight as he could, as he clung to Steve and wept. Around him other Shield agents did what they could as the soulbinder's victims cried, or screamed, or stared vacantly into space as the memories of what they'd done, of what they'd been made to do, crashed down on them.

A specialist Shield team, trained to deal with this level of trauma, was on their way; until then, they'd do the best they could. In the distance, crows landed near the soulbinder's body and hopped towards her. No one tried to shoo them away.

 

* * *

 

Not every Shield agent was on the list of agents qualified to deal with soulbinders; some agents were deemed unsuitable for handling the victims. Steve was qualified, so were Sam and Natasha, but on the list or not, any agent could refuse a call out. They never did.

Times like this, when they were sitting in Natasha's office after the debrief, after showering and changing into clothes that didn't smell like blood and burning and the desert, it was hard to remember why.

"We should go home," Nat said.

"Yeah," Sam replied, but neither of them moved.

Steve knew it was harder for them. He was a null. He couldn't feel the rotten magic, tainted and spoiled and _wrong_ , that pulsed off a soulbinder and the victims. All he had to deal with was the sound, the sight, the physical, and that'd been bad enough.

He shifted his chair around and wordlessly reached out to pull Nat into a hug. She resisted, briefly, then leaned into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder, her arms winding around his waist. He held out an arm and said, "Sam," and with a wordless sigh Sam rolled his chair closer and joined in, forehead against Steve's collarbone. Steve held onto them both, strong and steady, as time ticked past, as they both relaxed. "How about I take you both home? You'll feel better once you're inside your wards."

"What about you?" Sam asked, sitting back.

"I'll feel better once you're inside your wards, too."

Nat poked his chest as she sat back. "That's not what he meant, and you know it."

"I'll be fine. You know it's not as bad for me."

They eyed him and he looked back steadily. They exchanged glances, then Sam said, "You call one of us if you need us, right?"

"Right."

He took Nat's car and dropped Nat off first. She kissed his cheek and told him to call if he needed her. Sam took her place in the front seat and when Steve pulled up outside his place, he pulled Steve into a bear hug and said, "I’m not kissing your cheek. You're getting stubbly and I could do without beard burn on top of everything else."

He laughed and held on for a bit, then let go. "Get some sleep."

"You too. And we were serious. You call if you need us. Even if you just need to talk."

"Same goes for you, you know."

"I know, man. I know." He hopped out and patted the top of the car.

When he'd gone inside, Steve put the car in gear and drove off.

He meant to go home. He knew the way home from Sam's place so well he could probably drive it in his sleep, so why he was pulling up outside Bucky's building he didn't know. Just like he didn't know why he was getting out of Nat's car, tracing the sigil she'd made him to activate her wards, or why he was standing outside Bucky's door.

He didn't know, but it was where his feet had brought him. He knocked quietly, not wanting to wake Bucky if he was asleep, but Bucky opened the door.

He stood in the doorway looking at Steve, studying him, eyes raking him from head to toe. Steve didn't say anything. What could he say? It was late, he was empty-handed, he didn't even know why he was here. All he knew was he was weary down to the heart of him, hollow and hurting, and just seeing Bucky was making it begin to ease.

Bucky's eyes flickered, his expression softened, and he stepped back and gestured Steve inside. Surprise flared, and gratitude, and relief and Bucky's wards surrounded him, wrapping around him like a sun-warmed blanket as they let him through.

"Did you eat?" Bucky asked.

"What?"

"After whatever it was you were doing that landed you at my door looking like shit. Did you eat?"

"Uh, no." He hadn't. He'd showered, changed clothes, but none of them had eaten. "No."

"Sit." Bucky nodded—at the bed, not the chair, but Steve didn't question him. Steve sat. There were flowers everywhere, bright and glorious, the apartment was filled with their scent, and Steve closed his eyes and breathed deep. It was the scent he associated with Bucky. Flowers and, underneath, a hint of mustiness, not bad, not wrong—it was fallen leaves in autumn, lying like a shadow under the floral, reminding him that the flowers had been dead. That they _were_ dead.

But they'd always been dead. They'd been dead from the moment they'd been cut and harvested. Even before Bucky had found them their beauty had been no more than an illusion laid over the truth of it. All Bucky did was call that beauty back, make it last a little longer. Make their tiny deaths mean a little bit more.

God, he was tired.

He opened his eyes as Bucky put a plate of sandwiches on the bed next to him. "Eat." Bucky perched on the arm of the chair. When Steve didn't immediately pick up a sandwich, his eyes narrowed. "Steve."

Without arguing, he scooped up a sandwich and ate. It was thick, with lettuce, tomato, cheese, some kind of meat, he didn't know what. He didn't care. He was _ravenous_ , too hungry to taste anything, and he wolfed down the first, started on the second, slowed as he ate the third. Bucky hopped up and came back with a glass of water that he put on the floor at Steve's feet. He drank it down and finished the last sandwich under Bucky's watchful gaze.

"Thanks. Guess I was hungry."

"You think?" Bucky asked, deadpan, as he grabbed the plate and glass and went to drop them in the sink. He came back and stared down at Steve, eyes opaque.

Steve wanted to ask what he was thinking, ask what was going on behind those eyes, but he could barely muster the energy to keep his head up.

"Take off your shoes and lie down."

"What? I'm not—"

"Steve." It was soft and implacable and understanding, and it reached deep down into that dark, hollow, heart-weary part of him and whispered _safe_. "You came here for a reason. Not sure what that reason is, but you should stay. Lie down. Sleep. "

"I can't—"

It might have been _put you out of your bed._ It might have been _do that._ It might have been something else entirely, but whatever it might have been didn't matter because Bucky said, "You can," and Steve was reaching down to unlace his boots and kick them off.

Street clothes weren't the most comfortable things to try and sleep in, but he could cope. He shifted around a bit, then deliberately moved to the edge of the bed. Leaving room. There was an answering silence from Bucky, and he didn't know how he could hear silence, it didn't make sense, but it didn't matter, because he could. His back was to Bucky, there was an expanse of bed behind him, and he could hear Bucky's silence.

The lights went out and the bed dipped. A thrill went down his spine: nerves, yes, but he didn't think it was fear. He couldn't be one hundred percent sure, some things were ingrained so deep, and he was so close to what Bucky was... But he didn't think it was fear.

Steve moved his head so he could see the shadow that was Bucky. He'd settled sitting up against the wall, legs crossed, head tipped back, hands resting on his thighs.

He was keeping watch. Standing sentry. Bucky was guarding him. A different kind of thrill chased down his spine, this one made of warmth and awe and that tiny whisper of _safe_ and he knew none of it was fear. 

Steve rolled over and, knowing it was stupid, knowing he shouldn't, reached out to wrap his hand around Bucky's wrist. Not skin to skin, Bucky's skin was safely covered by his shirt, but it was close. Bare skin for both of them was only inches apart. Bucky's breath hitched once, then evened out. "Go to sleep, Steve."

Steve closed his eyes and slept, soothed by the beat of Bucky's pulse under his fingers. By the feel of Bucky keeping watch above him. By the knowledge that Bucky was there, that he wasn't alone.

 

* * *

 

Bucky didn't spend the night next to Steve.

When he was sure Steve was asleep, deeply asleep—and the tiny snores, the little snuffles, the way he curled in on himself like he was half his overgrown size were a dead giveaway—he'd moved to the chair. Steve hadn't wanted to let go of his arm. He'd clung, like Bucky was the only thing standing between him and some beast from nightmare.

Bucky had only got him to let go by saying, "It's okay, everything's all right, you're not alone," and his fingers had relaxed, his mouth going slack, and Bucky had pulled his arm away.

He'd chosen those words because they were all the things Steve's eyes had been saying he wasn't when he'd appeared at Bucky's door.

It was why Bucky had let him in. Late as it had been, he hadn't been able to send him away looking like that, like the world was darker and colder than he'd believed it could be.

It was tempting to think Steve was naïve. To look at his blue eyes and his blond hair and his demeanour and think he was some overgrown puppy of a man that the world had never touched. Bucky knew better. There was no way he'd seen the things Bucky had, but he was a Shield agent. Shield didn't have a fluffy bunny squad.

Whatever had left him looking like that, whatever had brought him to Bucky's door—it must have been bad. Bucky wasn't going to ask, he didn't want to know, he had enough nightmare material to last a lifetime, thanks, but he wasn't going to leave him to go through it alone.

He'd been expecting to be able to make Steve to stay.

He hadn't expected Steve to offer him his back, hadn't expected Steve to invite him to share the bed. That's what it had been, clear invitation. Invitation he'd almost rejected, but he hadn't known how to do that without rejecting Steve and, right then, he'd thought Steve would _feel_ that rejection and Bucky didn't want to hurt him.

He hadn't expected Steve to grab hold of him. For one terrifying moment he'd thought Steve had been going to grab his hand, but the man hadn't abandoned all sense.

The press of Steve's fingers through the cloth of his shirt, the way Steve had hung onto him, had sent a surge of protectiveness through him he hadn't known how to deal with. He still didn't know how to deal with it, it was so outside of his experience.  

It had kept him where he was, watching over Steve while Steve held onto his arm, until Steve fell asleep, then he went to sleep in the chair. It would be too easy to slip if he fell asleep next to Steve, too easy for skin to touch skin. Steve was only wearing a t-shirt.

Bucky woke as the sun rose and quietly made himself a coffee, leaning on the counter and watching Steve sleep. He slept like a coma patient—Bucky wasn't sure anything would wake him up—but neatly, not sprawling, and there was still a space next to him where Bucky would fit.

He turned away, knowing watching someone sleep was way too creepy, finished his coffee, gathered his flowers into the bag, scrawled Steve a note and left it on the table. He was about to leave when he stopped, huffed a breath and, laughing silently at himself, pulled a daffodil out of the bag and laid it on top of the note.

 

* * *

 

Steve woke to the piercing cry of his phone telling him to _get up_. A bleary-eyed look around the apartment told him Bucky was gone. So were the flowers.

He'd slept through Bucky getting ready for the day and gathering the flowers. He wished Bucky had woken him. Sort of. It would have been awkward. Wouldn’t it?

Maybe it wouldn’t have been.

His eyes fell on a flower, one Bucky must have forgotten. Or no, he realised as he got out of Bucky's bed and walked over to look at it, Bucky had left it for him.

It was a daffodil, simple and bright, sitting on top of a note. The note was Bucky telling him to stay as long as he liked, to help himself to coffee or anything else he wanted. Reminding him that once he left he wouldn't be able to get back in: the wards would let him out, but they wouldn't let him come back in, not unless Bucky made sure they knew Steve was allowed.

Steve made coffee, and he made the bed, and before he left he found a pen and wrote a reply. He kept it simple, kept it at _thank you_ , because otherwise he was afraid he'd write an essay trying to tell Bucky what it meant to him that Bucky had let him stay, but he also wrote his cell number.

When he left, he took the daffodil.

Nat's car was untouched, which he'd expected. Nat's wards were, according to those who could see them, unique, an eloquent mixture of threat and promise and magic so strong it'd take the combined efforts of several people to even make a dent in them, and all the while they'd know what would happen if they succeeded: Nat would make good on both the threat and the promise.

Steve wasn't sure what to do with the daffodil. He wasn't sure if Nat or Sam would be able to pick up traces of Bucky's power from it, or if they'd be able to tell it was dead. Not willing to get rid of it and not thinking too hard about why, he made a quick detour home and double parked long enough to dash up the stairs and into the foyer, unlock his mailbox, and set the daffodil inside. Then he ran back, hopped in the car, and went to pick up Sam.

He realised when Sam climbed in and did a double-take that he should have taken the time to actually park the car and go upstairs. Because the first words out of Sam's mouth were, "Aren't those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?"

Steve looked down at himself. They were. There was no way he could say anything but, "Yes."

"Hmmm."

Steve didn't say anything.

"I thought you were going home."

"I didn't."

Sam made another thoughtful noise but didn't say anything else as they swung through a drive through to get coffee, and drove through the early morning traffic to pull up outside Nat's place. She slid into the back seat, accepting the coffee from Sam with a muttered _thanks,_ and drank half of it before narrowing her eyes at Steve in the rear view mirror.

"That's what you were wearing last night."

"Yup." He already knew he wasn't getting out of this one.

"You didn't go home."

"Nope."

He saw her exchange a look with Sam. "What?" Steve said.

"Steve," Sam said, turning in his seat to face him. Steve braced himself, because Sam had his serious voice on. "If you didn't want to be alone, you could have stayed with us. With either of us."

Nat leaned forward, her elbow on the back of Sam's seat, and her hand was light on his shoulder. 

"I know. It wasn't that. It was…" He trailed off, because he still didn't know how to articulate what had driven him to Bucky. To _Bucky_. It had been Bucky he'd wanted. After searching and failing to find the right words, he shrugged.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam slowly smile. "Like that, is it?"

"Like what?"

"He's been scarce lately," Nat told Sam as she leaned back. "Did you know he made a new friend?"

"You mentioned that," Sam said. "And you're right, he _has_ been scarce."

"Out all hours of the day and night, never letting us know where he's going," Nat said.

"Never calling when he's going to be late," Sam added.

"I'd almost think this new friend is a," Nat met Steve's eyes in the rear-view mirror and hers were bright, sparkling with mischief, and inwardly Steve groaned, "boyfriend? Girlfriend? Non-binary friend?"

"No, no, and no," Steve said. He could feel the tips of his ears going pink, and he cursed them. "Just no."

"I don't know, I'm not sure I believe you. All joking aside," Sam said. "You've haven't been around much lately, and you went _somewhere_ that wasn't home last night."

Steve was saved from answering by arriving at Shield. He drove past security, and all three showed their IDs, then he tagged the reader, waiting for the roller door to lift, so he could drive down into the depths of the parking garage. He found a spot not far from where he'd parked his bike yesterday and turned off the car.

The silence had gone on long enough that both Sam and Nat had lost their teasing expressions, were watching him curiously.

"I need something from both of you. And you know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important." He kept his eyes on the steering wheel. He wanted to tell them. He wanted to invite Bucky into their lives, to be part of this, but he couldn’t. For all their sakes, and most especially for Bucky's, he couldn't.

"Whatever you need, man. You know that," Sam said, and Nat nodded.

"I need you not to ask." He lifted his head and met their eyes in turn, letting them see that this _mattered._ "Okay? I need you not to ask."

After a minute, Sam squeezed his shoulder. "You got it."

Nat took longer, her gaze weighing him up, measuring him, then she nodded. "If that's what you need, I won't ask."


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky had Steve's phone number. It had been written in neat, efficient letters on the note Bucky had left for him, along with a simple thank you. Of course, Bucky didn't have a phone, but he had a gift for charming them out of people when he needed them, and when all else failed there was still a payphone on the corner outside the 7-11, a daunting prospect, since it also doubled as a urinal, hotel room and occasional makeshift brothel, but fortune favoured the brave.

The important thing, he reminded himself, was that he had Steve's number. No, he thought, the important thing was that he was thinking about using it. He had a big exciting night planned, consisting of doing his laundry at the local laundromat, but he and Steve had fallen into the habit of sharing food, and the laundromat was next door to one of the best (and cheapest, and he was honest enough to admit the latter might be seriously influencing the former) Korean places around. He always combined the two: _laundry night_ became _picnicking in the laundromat night_ , eating delicious Korean while he read and waited for his clothes to go through their cycles. Maybe it was a bit weird, but then what about his life at this point wasn't?

For example, he was thinking he could ask Steve if he wanted to come. It wouldn't be that different from sitting in Bucky's apartment sharing food. The unfamiliar shock of protectiveness Steve had woken when he'd wrapped his hand around Bucky's wrist thought this was both a good idea and perfectly logical reasoning. Bucky told it to shut up, yet he still found himself offering a bouquet free of charge to a tough-looking woman, who could probably crush his head in one hand if she felt like it, if she'd let him borrow her phone.

"Forget yours at home?" she asked.

"Something like that."

"Local call?"

"Definitely."

"Deal." She unlocked her phone and held it out, and Bucky carefully accepted it, keeping his fingers well away from her skin. He dialled the number from memory, and how he'd accidentally memorised Steve's number was a question for another day, while she picked out a bouquet.

"How do you feel about picnics?" he asked when Steve answered.

"Bucky?"

"That's the one. How do you feel about picnics?"

"Good?"

"How do you feel about picnics with delicious Korean food in warm summer meadows?"

"Very good?"

"In that case, do you want to meet me tonight at ten?"

"Isn't that a bit late for a picnic?"

"It's a dinner picnic. The place we're going is well lit."

Steve sounded confused but game as he said, "Then I'll be there."

Bucky gave him an address, then said, "See you then. Gotta go. Oh, don't try and get me on this number, I'm borrowing the phone." He hung up, thanked the woman, who looked extremely amused, but she just slid her phone into her pocket, scooped up her bouquet, and continued on her way.

Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned down at his flowers, not sure how he felt, because he hadn't exactly expected Steve to say yes.

 

* * *

 

That night, just before ten, Bucky leaned on a streetlight, an oversized canvas bag at his feet. His head was tilted back, he had one leg propped against the pole, exuding relaxed unconcern, but he was scanning the street. He saw Steve as soon as he came into view, striding down the sidewalk, larger than life, a piece of the sun come down to earth to wander into less than savoury neighbourhoods.

Bucky sighed at himself and pushed off the pole, going to meet him. Steve seemed to brighten when he caught sight of him. Bucky didn't know what to make of it. He took the time to study Steve, trying to do it unobtrusively, looking for any sign of the darkness that had been hanging over him the other night, but it seemed to be gone.

In lieu of a greeting, Steve pointed at the bag. "A picnic basket's more traditional."

"Can't fit everything in a basket," Bucky replied, and set the bag down between them. After a second, Steve grinned and picked it up. "It's too small."

"I'm afraid to ask," Steve said as they started walking.

"Probably smart." Since the bag was full of Bucky's dirty laundry, it probably was. It was only a block to the laundromat and when they reached it, Bucky stopped and spread his arms. "Here we are."

"This is where we're having our picnic?"

Instead of answering, Bucky opened the door and held it for Steve, waving him inside with an overexaggerated bow, then followed him in. It was deserted, and there was a row of battered washing machines on the back wall, a bank of equally battered dryers down the left side, a couple extra-large versions of both on the right, and a huge table next to more washing machines in the middle. A stained couch and mismatched plastic chairs filled the empty spaces and a lurid red sign on the wall warned that all property was protected by rebound spells, so people attempted damage at their own risk.

"I'll give you the warm," Steve said, pointing at the dryers, "but the delicious food? The summer meadow?"

"The food's next door, and as for the meadow…" Bucky gestured at Steve to put the bag down and when he did, Bucky opened it and pulled out a bottle of fabric softener. "Summer Meadow. It says so right on the bottle." He had to fight not to laugh at the look of complete disbelief Steve sent his way. "Are you going to argue with the good people at the Fluffy Snuggle Fabric Softener company?"

"That's not what they're called."

"Fluffy Snuggle, I swear." Bucky awkwardly crossed his heart with the bottle, then shoved it back in the bag.

"That explains why your sheets were so soft," Steve said, laughing a little, but it trailed off into uncertain silence.

Bucky lifted the bag and dropped it on the table. He could feel the moment wanting to be awkward and decided _fuck it,_ he wasn't going to let it. "I wasn't sure you noticed with how fast you crashed out. You think it's easy making my bed smell like a summer meadow _and_ feel both fluffy and snuggly?" He caught Steve's gaze and grinned. "I'd be hurt, Steve, _hurt_ , if you hadn't noticed."  

Despite Bucky's efforts, there was a moment of awkward, Steve shifting his weight ever so slightly from foot to foot, and for a second Bucky was back there, Steve clutching his wrist, that shocked protectiveness rising in him, but it passed. Steve relaxed and grinned back. "Softest sheets ever."

"And don't you forget it." Bucky gave him a stern look. "Now I'm going to load up these machines, then you're going to do your best guard dog impression while I grab dinner."

"Why does everyone think I'm a dog," Steve said on a sigh, but he pulled himself up to sit on the table, legs swinging, as Bucky loaded the washers.

 

* * *

 

The table in the middle of the laundromat was big and solid. Bucky wasn't sure what it had originally been intended for, but it couldn't have been folding laundry, because it was built like something meant to hold farm equipment.

Which was just as well.

He and Steve were sitting on the table, the couch a worrying prospect neither of them was brave enough to pursue, the remains of their dinner spread out between them. There was a pile of toothpicks in front of each of them, a larger pile in the middle, and they were eyeing each other over their cards. Bucky was starting to get the feeling that playing poker with Steve was possibly a bad idea. They'd been raising reasonably, their personal pile of toothpicks getting smaller, but now Steve's eyes were gleaming.

"All in," he said and shoved his pile forward, and Bucky matched him.

"Call." Bucky broke into a shit-eating grin when Steve's hand proved to be nothing but pure junk, and waved his hands over his three of a kind with a magician's flourish.

He reached out to scoop up the toothpicks, only to be interrupted by Steve's, "Uh uh, I don't think so." Steve was grinning even wider than Bucky.

"Excuse me? Three of a kind." Bucky tapped his cards.

"Three of a kind," Steve scoffed. "What about these?" He tapped the ace, eight, and king that were part of his garbage hand. "It's a Royal Pachyderm, that beats three of a kind into a cocked hat."

"It's a _what_?"

"A Royal Pachyderm."

"There's no such thing as a Royal Pachyderm."

"Of course there is. Ever heard of Babar? He was king of the elephants, that makes him a royal pachyderm."

"That's a cartoon character, not a poker hand."

"It's named after him."

Bucky stared at him. Steve was so matter of fact, so earnest, if Bucky didn't know better, and he did know better, there was absolutely no poker hand called the _royal pachyderm,_ he'd believe him. He had to wonder how many people Steve had suckered with those innocent baby blues. "Do you actually know how to play poker?" he asked suspiciously, figuring the answer was either 'no' or 'way too damn well for Bucky's peace of mind'.

"I can neither confirm nor deny my poker playing abilities," Steve said innocently, and gathered up the cards. "Another round?"

"That depends, are you going to keep cheating by making up hands?"

"Bucky, I'm shocked. I'm an agent of Shield. A guardian of safety. Holder of the public's trust. Would I do something like that?"

Bucky gave him a flat look. "Hell yes."

Steve smirked at him.

"Give me the cards." Bucky held out his hand. Steve's smirk faded as he looked at Bucky questioningly, and Bucky realised what he'd done. He didn't take things from Steve. He didn't hand things to Steve. Too much chance of accidental skin on skin contact. But he'd just… He looked down at his hand, then up at Steve and took a deep breath. "Hand them over."

Steve tamped them into a neat pile and, moving slowly, he delicately set them in Bucky's hand, careful not to so much as brush Bucky's skin with a fingertip. Bucky wrapped his fingers around the cards and held on tight. His hand kind of wanted to shake, which was stupid.

"Okay?" Steve asked softly, and Bucky nodded.

"No more poker, though."

"No?"

"Nope." Bucky expertly shuffled the cards, then dealt out seven cards. "We're playing Go Fish."

Steve laughed and picked up his cards. "I can cheat at that, too, you know."

"I'm not even surprised."

Steve was right, he could cheat at Go Fish. So, it turned out, could Bucky. They didn't manage to clear a single deck before Bucky's laundry was done. While Bucky piled his clean laundry into the bag, Steve cleaned up the remains of their dinner, tossing the containers in the trash and wiping down the table.

They were standing under a streetlight, Bucky with the bag over his shoulder, Steve with his hands in his pockets, when Steve said, "This was fun."

It had been. Steve's company had been good, and it had settled that unexpected protectiveness to know he was doing okay. "Yeah. So, I'll see you?"

"I'll walk with you for a bit, if that's okay."

"The subway stop's the other way," he pointed out, but didn't object and Steve walked next to him as he headed back towards his building. It was dark, getting on towards midnight, there was no one around, at least no one they could see, and the streets were quiet, the streetlamps creating pools of light as they walked. Steve was casually alert next to him, tall and imposing, eyes scanning the street, and Bucky frowned. "Are you walking me home?"

Steve shrugged.

"You don't have to do that."

Steve shrugged again, and Bucky felt a curl of irritation. "I can look after myself. I don't need you to walk me home, like I'm some rich kid out slumming in the bad part of town."

"I know."

"Do you?" He stopped. "Then what's this about? The subway's clear in the other direction. If you walk me home, which is what you're doing, you're just going to have to walk back. I know I owe you, I owe you big time, for," he caught himself, "for what you did, but that doesn't mean I can't take care of myself. You have no idea what I've been through. You have no idea what I've survived. I sure as shit don't need an escort to get home in my own neighbourhood."

Steve looked a little stunned, and Bucky knew he'd maybe been too harsh, but he'd been happy, he'd been enjoying himself, and he felt like he'd had it torn out from underneath him. "It's not about that."

"Then what's it about, Steve? Tell me."

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's not because you can't look after yourself. That's not it. I know you can. I'll just feel better if I know you got home safe. It's not about you. It's," he winced, "about me." He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, elbows tucked in, shoulders hunched. "It's about me. I'm sorry. I'll go."

Bucky didn't say anything, he couldn’t, Steve's words had shut him up as effectively as a kick to the throat. Steve nodded once and turned, starting to walk away.

He felt like he had to claw the words out, but he managed to say them, even if they came out more like he was throwing them at Steve, more like swung fists than open palms when he said, "I'm not used to that."

Steve seemed to ripple, swaying towards Bucky as he turned, but he didn't say anything stupid. He didn't do anything stupid. It let Bucky say, "To someone caring if I'm safe." Steve nodded again, acknowledgement: _I hear you. You are heard._

Bucky was out of breath. His heart hurt, his lungs burned, like he'd run past his endurance, and he had no air to spare for more words. He hiked his bag of laundry higher and started walking towards his apartment, pausing to look over his shoulder. Steve was standing there, watching him, not moving, not following. Maybe there was breath for one more word. "Coming?"

Steve's smile wasn't quite like anything he'd ever seen—gratitude and warmth and an undefinable brightness—and it washed through him, settling as a point of calmness in his centre.

"Something's not right," Steve said after he'd fallen in beside him, and frowned.

"What?"

"Why are you carrying the bag?" Bucky choked on a laugh and tossed the bag to Steve, who grinned and threw it over his shoulder. "And all was once more right with the world," he proclaimed.

When Steve said it, Bucky almost felt like it was.


	9. Chapter 9

Steve slid a piece of paper over to Nat. It held a credible ballpoint sketch of a heavy-browed, be-fanged squid wearing a billowing cape with a high collar. The clue had been way too easy, but he knew he'd gotten lucky. _Vampire squid_ practically drew itself. The day he'd gotten stuck with _Unbearable Lightness of Being_ he'd stared baffled into space for so long his time had run out. He still suspected Nat had pulled a fast one.

He and Sam and Nat had gotten into the habit of playing Pictionary while they waited for the weekly briefing to start, switching off their two-person team, the third in charge of picking the random clue. Winning had become a questionable concept, varying between speed of the guess and the bizarreness of the drawing.  

There was a low background murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of music as someone opened a game on their phone and discovered they hadn't put it on mute, the sound of rustling papers, but it all came to a halt as Deputy-Director Hill walked into the room. She was flanked by her two standard flunkies. Steve wasn't being unkind when he called them flunkies. He'd started out trying to remember their names, but baby agents rotated through her office so frequently he'd given up. Hill wasn't cruel. She didn't bully or harass. It was simply that trying to keep up with her broke agents down, so they weren't left there for long. The ones that survived a full rotation with her had something they could be proud of.

Steve had done his stint with her when he was a baby agent. When it was over he'd slept for what felt like a month. The six months he'd spent with her meant he could read her a little better than most people, and it meant he could tell she wasn't happy.

"Agents," she said, taking her place behind the podium. "First thing, Foresight has a vague warning," there was a smattering of laughter, and Hill dipped her chin in acknowledgement. "I know, vague can be Foresight's stock in trade, and I wouldn't be discussing it at all except it involves necromancy." All amusement died away, people sitting up straighter.

"Are we looking at getting a Tracer in?" Nat asked.

"With a warning this vague? No. At this point all Foresight's giving us is necromancy and danger and a location of here in the city. We're notifying morgues, funeral homes, crematoriums, the usual places. Keep your eyes open, pay extra attention to anywhere with a high concentration of the dead. If you see anything that doesn't fit, report it." A low murmur passed around the room. "I expect everyone to keep their noses to ground on this one."

Steve felt cold. He barely heard Hill as she kept talking, moving through the rest of the briefing.

A necromancer.

He knew it wasn't Bucky. He knew it wouldn't be Bucky, but Bucky was the problem. He was a necromancer, he was in the city, he was using his powers, and every Shield agent was going to be looking for exactly that. Bucky's life was about to get a lot more dangerous.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice when the briefing broke up, a sharp elbow in the gut from Nat bringing him back to the real world to find her grinning at him. "Earth to Steve."

"Sorry." He forced a smile. "Didn't get enough sleep last night." And now he was lying to his best friends, but he couldn't tell them the truth, that he'd been thinking about his necromancer. Even if he thought that maybe Nat, at least, might understand, he wouldn't betray Bucky. It would be unforgivable.

"Been spending time with that thing we're not allowed to ask about?" Sam teased, slinging an arm around Steve's shoulders, giving him a quick squeeze before letting go.

Before Steve could reply, Nat said, "We promised, Sam. Remember?" She linked her arm with Steve's as they walked out of the briefing room. "Besides it's good for Steve to have a little mystery in his life."

Sam laughed as he fell into step on Steve's other side, shoulder bumping against his, and Steve felt warmth bloom through him. Warmth and the vague, hopeless wish that they could meet Bucky, that Bucky could meet them, because Bucky should have this.

 

* * *

 

That night, Steve went and knocked on Bucky's door. Bucky was grinning when he opened it and Steve felt Bucky's wards reaching for him, brushing up against him. He'd felt a lot of wards in his life, but Bucky's were the only ones that had ever seemed so alive.

Bucky absently waved Steve into the apartment, but Steve stayed where he was. Bucky tilted his head and frowned at him. "Is there a problem?"

"No. Yes. Maybe?"

Bucky's frown turned into something soft and amused. "Is this a choose your own adventure deal? Should I turn to page fourteen to see what happens?"

Steve sighed and hung his head and Bucky laughed at him, which was fair enough. "No, I mean. I'm not here to visit, exactly. I need to talk to you about something." He lifted his head to see that Bucky had gone tense. Not obviously, but Steve could see it in the skin around his eyes, in the set of his shoulders.

"About what?"

"About," Steve lowered his voice, "what you are."

Now Bucky's tension was overt, and he folded his arms, eyes hard. "Why?"

"Because I—" He stopped. "Outside your wards, we can't talk without a Silencer, and I don't want to talk in there."

"What's wrong with in here?"

Steve licked his lips. "This is your home. You let me in, you invited me in, you let me spend time with you here. When I showed up, when I," he stopped, not sure, then threw himself forward, "when I needed you, you were there for me. This, what I want to talk to you about, it's about…who I work for. I don't want it touching any of that."

All expression vanished off Bucky's face, but he nodded once and shut the door, leaving Steve outside. Steve waited, and Bucky came out a few minutes later. "Where to?"

"Anywhere. Once I activate the Silencer, no one will be able to hear us."

"Let's walk, then."

Bucky led the way out of the building and when they were on the street, Steve dug the Silencer out of his pocket. It was deep red, glimmering with silver highlights, about the size of a pack of gum. Sam had made it for him, and all he had to do was say the words while… "Can you hold the other side?"

Looking fascinated despite himself, Bucky caught the end with the tips of his fingers. Steve whispered, " _Mêle-toi de tes oignons_ ," and the air around them took on a dead quality as the silver flared to life, engulfing the red.  

Bucky raised an eyebrow as he let go.

"Some of the spell triggers are in different languages," Steve said as he shoved it back in his pocket.

The eyebrow stayed raised.

"My friends think they're funny," he admitted with a sigh and Bucky tried to hide a smile.

They walked for a bit, moving through the pools of light, Bucky with his hands shoved in his pockets, until Bucky finally asked, "What's going on?"

"Foresight—that's Shield's precog unit…" Bucky was smirking at him. "What?"

"I kinda worked that out myself."

Steve huffed at him. "You want to know what's going on. I'm trying to be thorough."

"Sorry. Carry on."

"Foresight's seen a necromancer, here in the city, and danger. It's vague, that's all they've got, but they say it's coming."

Bucky stopped walking and stillness rippled over him like a wave. "Are you here to tell me about it or are you here to make sure it's not going to be me?"

It hurt. It shouldn't have, but it hurt. Steve stopped and turned to face him, not speaking, holding his eyes, trying to show how much he believed in Bucky, how much he trusted him; after a minute, Bucky looked away. Steve drew in a breath and let it out. "Neither. I'm here to warn you. Shield's going to be paying attention, they're going to be watching out for necromancers specifically. You're going to need to be careful. You're going to need to keep your power inside your wards. No more working on flowers when you take them out of the dumpsters. No more sneaking through hospitals. You can't risk getting caught."

"That's why you're here."

Steve nodded.

Bucky stared at him, then tipped his head back, shifting his gaze to the stars, and let out one short breath. "That's what you couldn't tell me in my apartment, what you didn't want touching…" He trailed off and shook his head. "You're something else, Steve." He started walking and Steve followed, feeling like he'd missed something.

"You will be careful though, right?"

"Yeah, Steve. I'll be careful."

"Thanks."

"I feel like that should be the other way around."

Steve shrugged, and they kept walking. There was a little park up ahead, not much more than strip of grass with a few scraggly trees, something for the statue in the middle to look at as she spent her days, and Bucky turned into it, followed the path as it led him to the statue: a kindly faced woman with a ponytail, wearing overalls, an oversized book in one hand, a stylised wave of what Steve knew was meant to represent her magic in the other.

"Would another necromancer know you were here?" Steve asked.

Bucky stopped walking. "Why?"

"Wondering if you'd be safe."

"You worry about that a lot."

Steve shrugged again, but there was something warm in Bucky's eyes and his lips quirked before he said, "Maybe. I don't know. Theoretically, I guess. Theoretically, _I_ could find another one, but don't go getting excited. It's not going to happen."

"How come?"

Even with the row of lights at the path's edge it was too dark to read the statue's plaque. Bucky reached to touch the stone plinth the statue was standing on. "Do you know how many dead are in this city?"

"No."

"Neither do I, but I could. I would, if I let my power go. There's how many graveyards?" Steve wasn't sure, but he thought he could see the faintest hint of ice-blue in Bucky's eyes. "There'd be thousands, tens of thousands of the dead, all right there in my head, and I'd feel another necromancer right next to them. Or I should. I've never tried, but I'm not going to."

"That's fine. Shield has people for that."

Bucky nodded, but his eyes were distant as he stared at the statue. "You know, if you think about it, the dead are about the only innocent things left in the world. It's the mind, or the soul, pick whichever makes you happy, but they're why people do bad things." Steve wasn't sure if Bucky was talking to him, to the statue, or just talking to the night sky. "The body's got nothing to do with it. It can't act on its own, and once someone's dead, the body's all that left." He laughed, turning to lean on the statue, grinning at Steve. "The innocent dead. Listen to me, I sound like some idiot in a bad movie."

"No, not a bad movie. An interesting one, maybe. But not a bad one."

"You need to see a better class of movie," Bucky told him, shaking his head sadly. "But to answer your original question, yeah, theoretically another necromancer could find me, but why would they want to? What could I possibly offer?"

"Not much call for floral arrangements in their line of work?"

"Not so you'd notice."

Steve pulled out the Silencer, whispered " _La ferme_ ," the red bleeding back over the silver as the dead feeling faded. "Come on, I'll buy you dinner."

" _And_ dessert."

"And dessert," Steve agreed.

 

* * *

 

Bucky was careful. Steve knew he was careful because he kept checking in with him. Steve also knew the checking in was getting on Bucky's nerves—because Bucky told him so, clearly, in no uncertain terms, only the uncertain terms weren't quite as polite as _getting on my nerves_ —but despite the colourful language Bucky didn't seem all that unhappy about it.

Steve also kept a close eye on anything coming out of Foresight—and he'd never realised just how much next-thing-to-nonsense reports Foresight produced on a daily basis. Whoever oversaw sorting through it and matching it up to intelligence reports and turning it into something useful had Steve's sympathy, because some of it read like the work of drunken monkeys with only the vaguest understanding of causality.

It gave Steve a headache. He persevered, though, keeping his eyes open for anything to do with necromancy. There was nothing. It dawned on him that, given the way some future paths could twist and bend, the way the smallest of catalysts could shove them in a different direction—and oh god, he was starting to think like them—maybe _he'd_ changed things. Maybe by warning Bucky, he'd nipped _Foresight's_ warning in the bud.

What had Hill said? Necromancy and danger here in the city. Maybe it had been danger _to_ Bucky. Anyone reading a report like that would see necromancy and danger and assume the necromancy was the danger. But precog didn't work that way. Precog didn't bring human assumptions to the table, it just showed what could be, and necromancy and danger could have been Bucky in danger. It could have been Bucky caught by Shield. It could have been Bucky killed by Shield. By warning Bucky, by getting Bucky to keep his power inside his wards, Steve could have averted that future.

He didn't know, he couldn’t know, even if he'd had precog powers he couldn't have known, but it wasn't impossible.

Steve was sitting in Bucky's apartment in the fat armchair when Bucky asked him about it and he had to admit there'd been nothing else, had to admit there'd been nothing from Foresight, nothing turned up by any other methods, that other issues had moved to the forefront of Shield's attention.

"Does that mean I can go back to stabilising my flowers when I pull them out of the dumpster?" Bucky asked.

Steve tapped his fingers on his thigh. "I wish you wouldn't."

Bucky looked at him for a long time. "Because you want me to be safe."

"Yeah." The silence that was so often their companion flowed in and around them.

Finally, Bucky said, "Okay. I won't."

The relief Steve felt was a physical thing, curling around him like Bucky's wards. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

Steve got up and went to make them both a coffee, as comfortable as if he was in his kitchen at home.


	10. Chapter 10

Bucky took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling like somewhere in the random water-stains he might find his lost patience. "Tell me," he said to his wards. "Not to pick up a sledgehammer and smash down the asshole's door."

His wards didn't answer, because as sentient as they might sometimes seem they weren't actually alive, but he felt better for having said it.

The asshole in question was his landlord. The sledgehammer in question had been leaning against the wall when he'd come home and walked into chaos. It had obviously been well-used, the handle smooth and worn, and it would heft _so easily._ Bucky ground his teeth together and snarled a string of invectives at the wall as another round of destruction started, filling his apartment with the sound of smashing plaster.

He didn't hear the knock at the door, but it didn't matter. His wards happily announced that Steve was outside. He stormed over, flung open the door, and glared.

Not at Steve, not really, more at the entire world, which had seen fit to arrange itself into maximum inconvenience, but nevertheless Steve took a step backwards, almost tripped over a pile of plasterboard, and caught himself with one hand on an exposed beam.

Bucky winced. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm not mad at you."

"What's going on?"

"The landlord in his infinite wisdom has decided to bring yet more people down into the basement to enjoy the atmosphere." Steve did a doubletake. "He's apparently going to put in a couple of extra apartments."

"Is that legal?"

"Who knows. Who knows if any of them are legal. Those are the sorts of questions we don't ask," he said pointedly, and a loud crash provided suitably dramatic emphasis. "This is supposed to be finished by tomorrow night."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "You can't stay here. How are you supposed to sleep?"

"I called The W, but they were all booked up."

"You need more than an hour's notice at a fancy place like that. I can offer my couch as an alternative? It's not fancy, but it is quiet."

Bucky stared at him. "I can't stay your place."

"Why not?" Steve asked, sounding confused.

Bucky wanted to bang his head on the wall. "Because I can't. Because—" He stopped, because he didn't know how to finish the sentence. He felt like it should be: _because you’re a Shield agent._ He felt like it should be: _because you could end my freedom with a word._ He felt like it should be: _I don't go into_ your _life. I'm not part of_ your _life. That's not how this works._

But those were all wrong, weren't they?

Steve _was_ a Shield agent, but that wasn't who he was to Bucky. He hadn't been, not for a long time. Bucky had long since accepted that Steve was his friend. They were friends. Maybe a little more than that, something there wasn't a word for, since Steve had shown up at Bucky's door hurting, _aching_ , and laid down in Bucky's bed, since he'd wrapped his hand around Bucky's wrist and woken a protectiveness Bucky hadn't known he could feel, since Bucky had discovered Steve needed him to be safe.  

Steve would never turn him in, and not because his life would be as over as Bucky's. He just wouldn’t. Bucky believed in that. Bucky trusted that. Bucky trusted Steve. Steve was part of his life, had worked his way under Bucky's skin to the point Bucky couldn't imagine life without Steve in it.

It swept through him like a wave, left him staring silently up at Steve.

"Bucky?" Confusion had given way to concern and Steve took half a step forward. Steve, with his bare arms and bare face and bare hands, so much skin so close, and never an ounce of worry. "You don't have to. It was just a thought."

"No." Steve's face fell and Bucky quickly said, "No, I mean, yes. Sure. Your place." He shook it off, the strange weight his realisation seemed to be giving every word. "It's got to be better than putting up with this racket."

Steve beamed at him.

 

* * *

 

Steve was carrying Bucky's bag as Bucky followed him out of the elevator, because carrying Bucky's bags was what he did, glad he'd moved past whatever his problem had been, because he couldn’t stay at his place with walls being smashed down across the hall. 

"Hang on," Steve said, stopping outside his door. "I've got to do the wards."

"Out of the box?" Bucky asked, squinting at the door.

"Used to be, but some friends built these ones. They weren't impressed with what I'd bought." Nat had started laughing when she'd seen them, had crafted new ones on the spot, ones that had felt like her, sharp and strong, and he'd never doubted they'd keep him safe. When Sam had come along, he'd added to them. Steve's wards had become gentler, little sparks of warmth with steel beneath as Sam had worked with Nat to weave their magic together, creating something they'd promised was impenetrable. He wished he could see them. "Let me just..."

He drew a sigil on the door and leaned forward to breathe on it as he felt the wards recognise him.  

"You blow on your wards?"

"It's one way to make sure it's me if I'm going to let someone through them. A symbol can be copied, fingers and blood, they can be stolen, but me breathing on it? That's pretty foolproof."

"I like it," Bucky said. "It's clever."

"Glad you think so." Steve motioned him forward. "Your turn."

It got him a suspicious look.

"Hey, I don't have magic, I can't tell them you're welcome here. This is what I have."

Bucky's expression softened, and he moved forward to breathe on the door. Then he stiffened. "Steve," he said, head tilted a little. "These friends of yours. Would you say they're...protective?"

"A bit, yeah," he said. "Are you okay?"

He let out a deep breath and relaxed. "Yeah. Yeah, I just wouldn't want to be showing up here wanting to hurt you. I don't think I'd make it through the door."

"Isn't that point?"

"And they make it very effectively."

 

* * *

 

Steve's wards were scary. There was no puppy friendliness; Bucky felt like he'd just been given the once over by a dragon, like a huge, mythological beast, enormous enough to consume entire towns, had raked its gaze across him and decided at the last moment he wasn't worth eating. Whoever these friends of Steve's were, they were extremely protective and not worried in the slightest about showing it.

He was suddenly very glad he'd never have to meet them.

Steve's apartment was about four times the size of Bucky's and that was just the bit he could see. It was open and airy, the living room leading into the dining room, leading into the kitchen, which had a half wall blocking it from the rest of the space.  Bookshelves lined the wall behind the dining table, there was framed art and photos on the walls, cabinets with knickknacks, a flat screen TV with a huge couch and a matching armchair set up in front of it, a coffee table between them.

It looked like an adult lived here, someone with their life together, and Bucky waited to feel a moment of jealousy, or resentment, or something. It didn't come. All he felt was glad that Steve didn't have to live in a basement shithole, and a burning desire to attack his bookshelves.

"Do you want to grab a seat and I'll rustle us up something to eat?" Steve asked.

"I thought you didn't cook. You said you couldn’t cook," Bucky said accusingly.

"I said I _don't really_ cook. And I don't, really. I just arrange stuff and add heat."

"As far as I know that's the definition of cooking."

"Oh, then I guess I do cook." Steve grinned. " _Don't really_ and _can't_ aren't the same thing. There's not much point when it's just me, so I usually get takeout. If there's two of us? There's a point. Make yourself comfy, TV's there if you want it. Do you want something to drink?"

Bucky eyed him. 

"Or if there's anything else you want, just let me know."

Bucky continued eyeing him.

"It's been awhile since I played host."

"Why are you doing it for me?" Bucky fixed him with a stern look. This felt _important_. "Steve. I'm not a guest. Just like you weren't. Just like you _aren't_."

Silence rose, like silences often seemed to do around them, but this one felt warm, and then Steve smiled, as warm as the silence. "In that case, if you want a drink, get it yourself. Glasses are in the cupboard next to the fridge."

Bucky laughed and went to help himself, feeling surprisingly at ease in a space he couldn’t control.

He hung out in the kitchen while Steve started chopping and dicing and rolling meat in colourful spices, then wandered out to stare at his bookshelves, which were far more interesting. Steve had eclectic tastes, fiction and history and magical theory and politics and philosophy and random subjects here and there. He talked to Steve about them, asking about this author and that title, and Steve said, "You can borrow anything you want, Bucky," and Bucky did an internal dance of glee. Every one of his books was scrounged or scavenged or bought from second hand sales, which meant he took what he could get, and Steve had titles he'd never heard of.

They ate at the table, which was something Bucky hadn't done in more years than he liked to think about. At his place he sat on the counter or in the armchair, or sometimes he'd just eat over the sink to save time and dishes. This was nicer. Dinner was good, a rice thing with bits of chicken and crispy vegetables, and just spicy enough.

Steve even offered a bottle of wine. Bucky refused, but said, "If I didn’t know better, I'd think this was a date," and was deeply amused when Steve's ears went pink at the tips.

"Hey, you missed out on that fancy hotel, I'm just trying to make up for it."

"Does that mean there's going to be a mint on my pillow when I go to bed?"

"I'll see what I can do."

After dinner, Steve tried to clear the table, but Bucky grabbed hold of his plate and tugged it out of his hands. "No."

"I know how the rest of this goes."

"Then you'll know there's no point fighting me," Bucky told him primly and shooed him away. "Go do whatever it is you do after dinner in a stupidly big apartment. Leave me to my business."

He got a chuckle for his troubles and Steve disappeared. Bucky gathered up the plates and cutlery and glasses and wandered into the kitchen, only to scowl and yell, "Hey!"

"You bellowed?" Steve said, poking his head around the wall.

"Where's the dishes?"

"What dishes?"

"The ones you used while you were arranging and applying the heat to the food."

"No idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, yes you do. You knew I was going to make you let me do them, so you washed them before I could get to them."

Steve smiled smugly.

"You're such an ass."

The smugness amplified.

"Get out of here."

Steve went and Bucky, grumbling, washed the few remaining dishes. He did stop, arms up to the wrists in warm, soapy water, to laugh at the fact that he'd just been arguing about doing the dishes. Specifically, about the fact that he hadn't gotten to do them. "What is my life?" he muttered, but he finished and set them to drip in the drainer, drying his hands on his jeans.

When he came out of the kitchen he found Steve sitting on one end of the couch, a pile of bedding and pillows sitting on the floor next to the other end…and a chocolate mint sitting on top of the pillows.

"Where did you even get that?" Bucky asked, pointing at the mint.

"Not telling, but honestly? I wouldn’t eat it. It's probably older than you."

"How old do you think I am?" he asked as he dropped onto the other end of the couch from Steve.

"I…don't know," Steve replied, looking surprised. "I never thought about it."

"Twenty-four. You?"

"Twenty-eight."

Bucky poked the mint. It felt like it was made of concrete and there was a cobweb stuck to the wrapper. "I think it's older than you. I think it's older than both of us _combined_. Where did you even find it?"

"In the bottom of an old suitcase. But hey, you ask for a mint on your pillow, you get a mint on your pillow. Casa de Rogers provides. I don't want you leaving me a bad review."

"Oh, it's going to be so much better now. _Innkeeper tried to poison me with ancient candy. One out of five stars."_

"No one's going to want to stay here."

"Not unless they're into poison candy."

"And if they are, I'm not sure I want them in my house."

"Good thing you've got a second career to fall back on."

"The Shield thing's been working out pretty well for me so far." Bucky tossed the mint onto the coffee table, and it clunked like it was made of stone. They both stared at it. "Yeah, don't eat that."

They fell silent, but it was comfortable, easy and warm. Bucky leaned against the arm of the couch, which was extremely comfy and long enough to stretch out on, put his head on his arm, and considered Steve. "Why did you join Shield?"

By the look on Steve's face, the question came as a surprise. It had been pure curiosity that made Bucky ask, but now that it was out there, he wanted to know.

"It felt right."

"It felt right?"

"Yeah." Steve laughed softly. "It was kind of a natural progression from when I was a kid."

"You're going to have to explain that one."

"You really want to hear this?" Steve asked doubtfully.

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know." He settled himself more comfortably against the arm of the couch. "Tell me about kid Steve. Were you a teacher's pet? Always following the rules?" he teased.

"Hey!" Steve looked mortally offended. "Nothing like that. I used to get into fights. I think I spent more time in detention than I did in class, some years."

"Really?" Even as he said it, he realised he wasn't surprised.

"Really." Bucky gestured at him to explain. "They knew I was a null pretty early on. All the kids at school got lectured hard about not using magic against the null, only back then they called us _un-gifted._ " Steve rolled his eyes. "Personally, I prefer null. Magically null, it does what it says on the tin, right?"

Bucky nodded.

"Most of the kids listened but power's a spectrum. No one manifests a specific power until after puberty, but everyone who's getting magic usually has _something_ by seven or eight. That doesn't mean it's going to be _strong_ , though, and kids are assholes. Everyone knows not to go after the null, but no one's giving lectures about not going after kids with weak magic. A kid with weak magic who's getting attacked by a kid with strong magic? That kid may as well be a null for all the chance they've got."

Steve smiled, but Bucky thought it was more baring his teeth than anything else. "Difference is, that kid's still going to try and protect themselves with magic, because that's all they know. They're going to try, and they're going to fail. The kid who's been a null all his life isn't even going to try. I was never any good at standing by and watching someone get hurt, so I got used to throwing myself in the middle. Made myself a target, and I lost a whole bunch of fights, because at the end of the day I was still a null and they were kids with strong magic, but I learned something important and so did the kids with weak magic."

Bucky was fascinated, leaning forward as he listened to Steve, trying to imagine him, small and fierce and hurling himself into fights with magical kids, not giving a damn what happened. "What's that?"

"Doesn't matter how strong you are, pain makes it damn hard to concentrate." Steve gave him a wicked, bloodthirsty grin. "Tackle someone into the ground, punch them hard enough, whatever magic they're trying to do's going to fizzle out of existence." He shrugged. "It turned into a habit, one that followed me all the way to high school, and then I joined Shield."

"You joined Shield out of high school?"

"I joined Shield my second year at college, finished my degree part-time, it's just that people didn't really get into fights at college."

"Steve Rogers, Crusader for Justice, with a degree in…" He stopped. "What's your degree?"

Now Steve looked shifty. "Shield just wants you to get one, they don't really care what it is. Most people go for something in a related field. Criminal justice, legal studies, offensive magical theory, but not everyone. I know someone with a fine arts degree, someone else with one in fashion merchandising."

"That's great, and if I wanted to know what everyone else had, I'd ask them. What's yours in?"

Steve scratched the back of his neck. "History…with a minor in ethics?"

Bucky laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling.

"Sadly, not the first time I've had that reaction."

"No, no you don't understand, that's perfect. That, shit, that's so perfectly you." He struggled to breathe. "I'm not even surprised," he added when he had himself under control. "That's beautiful. Ethics. It explains why you do what _you_ think is right and hang the consequences."

"I care about the consequences." There was a thread of hurt in Steve's voice he was obviously trying to hide, but Bucky heard it.

"Steve, no, that's not. Shit." He sat up straighter. "That's not what I meant. I meant," he cast about for the right words, "I just meant that you decide for yourself what the right thing to do is, even if that means breaking the rules." He pointed at himself. "Not that you don't care what happens."

"Oh. Yeah, that's about right. Although…"

"Although?"

Steve pointed at him. "It's never happened before."

"Huh."

"Guess you're just a special case."

Bucky huffed. "Bet you say that to all the rogue necromancers you let into your apartment."

"Every single one."

Bucky scooped the mint off the coffee table and chucked it at him.

Steve caught it in mid-air. "Watch it, that's probably assault. I might have to call the cops."

"Hello, 911, yes, I want to report a mint attack. That'll go over well," Bucky said and Steve chuckled, tossing the mint back on the table. "Okay, so why Shield? You're not magic." Steve's eyebrows rose, asking: _Yes, and?_ "I mean, wouldn't the cops, or the CIA, or the FBI have been a better choice?"

"I was only ever going to join Shield. If they hadn't taken me, I'd have found something else to do with my life."

"How come?"

"Because Shield tries to help. They're the ones that—"

Steve stopped, looking vaguely guilty. Bucky said, "You can keep going. I know what Shield does. It's okay."

He still looked doubtful, but he nodded. "Shield isn't just enforcement. They try to help. They don't walk away after they get the bad guy; they stay and pick up the pieces. And they work with kids. A kid manifests a proscribed power, or a power they can't handle, or one that scares them, they can come to Shield for help. Their parents can get help. Shield's got therapists, counsellors, support groups, and it doesn't cost a dime. Shield's not perfect, it's a hell of a long way from perfect, but they're trying."

Bucky's throat was dry. He'd known, he'd always known, what Shield did. But it was one thing to know it in the abstract and another thing to hear Steve say it. To hear Steve say that a single phone call would have altered his entire life. He curled his hands into fists, sank his nails into his palms, and shoved it down. "Yeah? And what would they do with me if you brought me in?"

Steve didn't look away; Bucky hadn't expected him to. "I don't know. The necromancers that don't die, the ones Shield's brought in alive, at least the ones I know about? They wind up mind locked and power blocked, in prison far away where they can't hurt anyone, and they stay there until they die."

Bucky curled his hands tighter.

"I won't let that happen to you."

"I know you won't." He looked away and let out a shaky breath. "Subject change?"

"Gladly," Steve said, sounding relieved.  

"I'm going to raid your books."

"Feel free."

"No, you don't understand. I'm going to raid them in the old-fashioned meaning of the word. I'm going to plunder them and leave you with nothing."

"Sounds terrible."

"It will be. There'll be nothing left but empty shelves, maybe a dust jacket or two."

"Just don't set fire to the living room on your way out and we'll be good."

"I feel like you should be more upset about the loss of your books."

"Bucky." Steve stood and stretched, smiling down at him, eyes warm. "I know where you live. Your wards love me. You take good care of your books. I'm not worried. Do you want popcorn and then we can watch a movie, or are you tired?"

"Popcorn sounds good." He was tired, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be alone. A movie would keep Steve out here with him. "How do you know I take care of my books?"

"I've got eyes."

"My books are trashed." Steve had disappeared into the kitchen. Bucky could hear him rustling around, after a bit the microwave started, and Steve came out to lean on the doorway to the kitchen.

"They're old and battered, but you take care of them," Steve said. "Your whole place is like that."

"Old and battered?"

"No, you take care of it."

Bucky shuffled down on the couch and turned around, because he didn't know what to do with that, and Steve went back into the kitchen. When he came out he set two bowls of popcorn on the couch. "Any preferences?"

"Something funny."

"Something funny it is."

Bucky was dozing five minutes in, aware of the sound of the movie and Steve's presence at the other end of the couch. He was asleep before the end credits. He woke up with a blanket draped over him and the pillow under his hand, placed on the floor next to the couch where he could easily grab it. The kitchen light was on, so he wasn't in darkness and he knew where he was: on Steve's couch, in Steve's apartment, and somewhere down the hall Steve was asleep. It was comforting, and he was asleep again in minutes.

 

* * *

 

Two nights later, Bucky's ears were ringing, but that wasn't surprising considering he'd been standing next to a guy jackhammering through concrete. He'd stopped when he'd seen Bucky waving at him, but it had taken a good thirty seconds of gut-shaking _noise_.

"I thought this was supposed to be finished," Bucky said politely, even though polite was the last thing he was feeling.

The guy with the jackhammer looked sympathetic. "We finished taking the walls down. Now we have to take up the slab."

"With a jackhammer."

"With a jackhammer, yeah."

Bucky grit his teeth. "There a reason it's happening at night?"

"Take a wild guess."

These guys were probably getting paid under the counter to work after hours, after they were finished their day jobs, but there was no way he was going to admit it straight out. _Right_. "Any chance I could borrow your phone, see if I can find somewhere else to stay tonight?"

"Sure." The guy leaned the jackhammer against an exposed beam and grabbed it out of a toolbox.

Bucky dialled Steve, and when he picked up, asked, "Any chance your couch is available?"

"It so happens I have a vacancy."

"Mind I grab it?"

"Not at all. Problems over there?"

"Yeah, they're jackhammering up the concrete slab."

"Ouch."

"You're not kidding."

"Get over here, will you?"

"I'm on my way."

He hung up and returned the phone. "Thanks."

The guy tapped it to his head in salute and went back to his jackhammer. Bucky retreated into his apartment, threw some stuff into a bag, and headed for the subway, the sounds of a jackhammer on concrete following him out of the building.

 

* * *

 

Bucky was grumpier than a grounded Sam when he arrived. Steve brought him through the wards, took his bag, told him to sit on the couch, and crouched in front of him.

"I'm going to make you an offer, and I want you to listen before you say no out of hand. Okay?"

Now he looked suspicious. Steve waited, patient as the hills, and finally Bucky said, "All right."

"What's going on at your place, it's not going to be over anytime soon."

"It's looking that way."

"Okay. With that in mind, I want you to consider my couch yours until it's over, or at least until the noisy parts are over. I can give you a key and a permanent pass through my wards." 

"No, you can't."

"I can," Steve said. "It's easy, I've got spare keys for the door and, it's not exactly a key for the wards but it does the same job. The only thing is you need to check with me. My friends… I don't want you to run into them. It might not be safe for you. They're Shield, too."

"I figured they would be," Bucky said absently. "Steve, you can't give me a pass through your wards."

"Why not?"

"It's not safe."

"Why not?"

"Because…because…it's just _not._ "

"Why? You're not going to hurt me."

"No, of course not."

"Then what's the problem?"

Bucky curled his fingers, digging them into his thighs, and sank his teeth into his bottom lip. His eyes were flicking back and forth. Steve didn't know what was going on, but he could see it was something big. He leaned back on his heels, waiting.

Eventually, Bucky stilled. "There's things you don't know."

Steve didn't know how to respond. There was something in Bucky's eyes, in the way he was holding himself, like he didn't know whether he was challenging Steve to ask or begging him not to. "Okay."

"You need to know them."

He wanted to reach out for him, wanted to reach out and rest a hand on Bucky's knee, to reassure him, but he didn't. He knew it wouldn't help. "Only if you need to tell me," he said, as gently as he could.

Bucky bowed his head, hair falling in a swoop to hide his face, and when he lifted his gaze back to Steve's the uncertainty was gone. "I do. And I need you to listen."

"I'm listening."

Bucky took a deep breath and lifted his chin. He was facing Steve, but he wasn't quite looking at him, eyes focused somewhere over Steve's left shoulder. He looked like a man on the gallows, waiting for the rope.

"You know how you said specific powers don't manifest until after puberty?"

A chill shivered under his skin as understood what Bucky was about to tell him, but he didn't let it show. "Yeah, Bucky."

"I was sixteen when Laundry died. That was my cat," he added. "I got her when she was this tiny ball of grey fluff. She was curled up in the hamper, and I thought she was a sock. My parents tried to make me name her Socks, but to five-year-old me Laundry made more sense."

"I can guess what happened next," Steve said quietly, wanting to make this easier if he could.

Bucky's voice was kind as he said, "No, Steve, you can't," but his smile was bitter. "My parents had her buried in the pet cemetery. I don't really know why. I guess they must have felt bad for me, I was that upset about losing her. But she was back the next morning, curled up on my bed. She didn't come alone." He tipped his head to briefly meet Steve's eyes. "Every pet in the cemetery came with her. All of them, lying on the floor around my bed. Like they were sleeping. Even the ones who were just bone. Even the ones who were half-way rotten."

Steve's eyes widened, because he couldn't imagine the shock of it.

"Not just one. I called them all. I managed to send them back before the sun rose, but not before my parents saw them. They lost it. Everyone wants their kid to have strong magic, it's even better than growing up to be a doctor or a lawyer. But they want them to be a teleporter, or an energy manipulator, or an elementalist." Bucky rubbed his fingertips across his knees. "No one wants their kid to be born a bad guy."

"Bucky, you're not. You're not a bad guy."

"They didn't think so." Bucky's voice was steady, but it was the kind of steady that came from iron control. "They were afraid. Of me, Steve. I wasn't their son anymore. They looked at me and all they saw was a monster. I looked at them and there was nothing but fear."

Steve's heart broke: for Bucky now, for the child he'd been that Steve could see peeking out through his eyes. His heart broke and fury seeped through the cracks.

"But it wasn't just fear. It was shame. It was anger. At me, because me having that power meant there was something wrong with _them_. They could have called Shield. Everyone knows that. But if they'd called Shield, if they'd asked for help, everyone would have known they were defective, everyone would have known their son was a monster. Instead—

Bucky stopped. His gaze was as heavy as gravity, as the earth itself, but underneath it Steve could see fear. Steve pressed back against it, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, meeting Bucky's eyes with a heart full of faith. He wanted to take Bucky's hand. He wanted to hold him. The thought of touching Bucky, skin to skin—it wasn't an issue. He _wanted_ to, but he let the urge die because it wouldn't help Bucky. It would send him fleeing. Instead he made his voice gentle, soft, and said,  "You can tell me anything, Bucky, and I'll listen. I'm here. You don't have to be afraid."

"Yeah, I do." Before Steve could say anything else, Bucky said, "I don't know how they found him, or if maybe he found them, but they gave me to a man named Alexander Pierce. He promised them no one would ever know, that it would be like it never happened, and he took me away."

Steve froze while his mind _raced_. Bucky was the missing piece, the one thing they'd never been able to figure out. "You were Hydra's necromancer."

Bucky exploded off the couch, face painted in fury. " _No,_ " he snarled _._ "You think I'd ever do that, ever hurt people like that, ever use my powers...I would never hurt anyone. _Never._ You know what Pierce was, or you fucking well should. He _stole_ my power and I couldn't stop him _._ He killed people with my power and I couldn't stop him. He didn't touch me to bleed me, but if he had, if he'd ever given me the chance, I would have killed him."

Bucky's teeth were bared, eyes wild and flaring ice-blue, and Steve believed him. If Alexander Pierce had ever put his hands on Bucky's skin, Alexander Pierce would have died.

"He made me watch my power kill people." He drew in a shuddery breath, closed his eyes, and when he opened them they were blue-grey. "And then he raised them from the dead. I _tried_ to stop him _._ I _tried,_ but my power was gone." Bucky's voice broke and he crossed his arms, dug his fingers into forearms. "I tried." 

"I know." Bucky's head whipped around and he stared at Steve. Steve slowly got to his feet and approached Bucky. Bucky's eyes were deep and hurt and scared. "I'm sorry. Bucky, I'm so sorry. I know you tried. I know you didn't work for them willingly. I know you wouldn't do that. I know you. I _know_. I meant... You're what we could never figure out. We knew he was using a necromancer, but we didn't find one when we took him down."

"You were there?"

"Yeah." Tell him, don't tell him. "I killed him."

"He's definitely dead?"

"I put a bullet through his heart. He's definitely dead. Cremated. I think his ashes got dumped in a landfill somewhere."

"Good."

Bucky's arms were still wrapped around himself, and the urge to reach out sparked again, stronger, harder, and Steve fought it down. _He made me watch my power kill people._ God, no wonder Bucky shied away so hard from any chance of touching skin, no wonder he'd panicked that first time, when his hand had ended up on Steve's ribs. 

He wouldn’t do anything to hurt Bucky, he wouldn't do anything to upset him, but Bucky had let him have this for _him_. Maybe he'd let him have it for _Bucky._ Moving slowly, telegraphing every movement—and Bucky's eyes tracked his hand the whole way—he reached out and pressed his fingertips against the back of Bucky's sleeve-covered wrist. Bucky swallowed hard, but he relaxed his grip on himself, let Steve gently pull his wrist forward, let Steve curl his fingers around it, until Steve was cradling it.

"I was there," Steve said. "When we were pulling people out. I know what they went through, what Pierce did to them." It was an invitation, it was an offer, but Bucky shook his head.

"I don't want to go back. Leave it in the past." His voice was hard, but when Steve tentatively brushed his thumb back and forth, he pressed his wrist into Steve's hand.

"Okay, Bucky."

"He used to call us his stable. We were why he called his organisation Hydra. Did you know that?"

Steve shook his head.

"Because one of us would die, or get killed, and he'd just go pick up two more to take their place."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." Bucky smiled suddenly. "I guess I should thank you."

"For what?"

"If it wasn't for you, I'm not sure I ever would have gotten away. I probably should have sent you a fruit basket or something, but I didn't really want to get on Shield's radar."

"I do like a nice fruit basket, but I think accepting it would have been a breach of the code of conduct. I don't think we're allowed to accept gifts for doing our duty."

Bucky hiccupped a laugh, then snorted, then gave in and started laughing in earnest. Steve held his wrist and ignored that it half sounded like sobs.

"Go on, sit down," Steve told him when it died away, and opened his hand to let Bucky go, instantly missing the feel of him. "You look like you're about to fall over."

Bucky nodded and went to slump onto the couch.

"Have you eaten?" Steve asked.

Bucky shook his head.

"Are you hungry?"

Bucky shook his head again.

"How about I make something anyway?"

Bucky turned his head and smiled wearily. "Sure."

"Come and help me."

"Okay."

He put Bucky to work chopping vegetables, figuring the smooth repetitive motion would help, and tossed them in the cast iron skillet as they were done and when there were no more vegetables, he had him beat the eggs.

When they sat down to eat, Bucky ate the frittata with every evidence of enjoyment, but he seemed exhausted. Steve wasn't surprised. He didn't let Bucky help with the dishes, just sent him out to the living room to pick a movie.

It was the sequel to the one they'd watched last time and as the characters got themselves into trouble they could have avoided if they'd been smart enough to get out of their own way for five damn minutes, Steve left them to it and let his attention shift to Bucky. 

Bucky, who must have been with Alexander Pierce, with Hydra, for three years, give or take a few months, if his parents had given him up when he was sixteen. The fury was leaking out again, but he locked it away. Bucky's parents had thrown him away like garbage when all they'd had to do was pick up the phone.

It was unforgivable. He wondered where they were. He wondered… _No. They don't matter. Not now._ What mattered was Bucky, who'd been with, who'd been _held by_ Hydra, for all that time and stayed good.

Steve was in awe.

Anyone could be a good person when their life was easy. Steve counted himself in that. He'd lost his mother and that hurt was a small and ever-present spot of loss in his heart, but his life had been relatively easy. Sure, he hadn't had magic and they hadn't had a lot of money, but they'd had each other. He'd been loved, he'd always known he'd been loved. When they'd found out he was a null, she'd loved him; if he'd manifested as a necromancer, he knew she'd have loved him just the same. She'd have gotten him to Shield, gotten him whatever he needed to make sure he grew up happy, even with a power like that hanging over him.

The people who were supposed to love Bucky, who were supposed to love and protect him, had thrown him away. They'd decided he was a monster because of something that wasn't and could never have been his fault and handed him off to a monster in truth.

And still, with all of that, with everything that should have made him the monster his parents had believed him to be—instead he was this.

A quiet sigh drew his gaze to Bucky. His eyes were closed, he was breathing softly, his hands folded together and tucked under his body, like even in sleep he needed to make sure he didn't accidentally touch.

Steve's heart clenched, fierce protectiveness and affection and something else he couldn't let himself acknowledge. 

He eased off the couch, pulled the blanket off the chair, shook it out and gently laid it over Bucky. He tensed and shifted, features twisting, but Steve softly said his name, whispered that he was safe, and his expression smoothed into the slackness of sleep. It did something to Steve's heart that his words were enough for Bucky to believe he was safe.

He meant to go to bed. He really did. Instead, he sank into the couch's matching chair.

Bucky had watched over him. Steve would do the same. 

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Steve fell asleep. The alarm on his phone woke him in the morning, and he scrambled to his feet, back calling him foul names for spending the night in the chair.

The blanket was neatly folded on the couch and Bucky was gone. Steve wasn't surprised.

He was a little surprised to find the note sitting on the coffee table. It just said _thanks_ , but there was a flower doodled next to it. Steve thought it was a daffodil.

It made him smile.

 

* * *

 

When Bucky showed up at Steve's place a few nights later—not a surprise visit; he'd checked first, like Steve had asked him to—he had a bag packed for a few days and his heart in his throat. "I'll take you up on that offer, if that's okay," he said when they'd both breathed on the door, so Steve could let him through the wards.  

He didn't know what this thing was that he had with Steve, but he'd trusted Steve with almost everything he had, with almost everything he was. If Steve wanted to give him a pass through his wards, Bucky would accept it. If Steve wanted to let Bucky stay with him while Bucky's apartment was turned into deconstruction central, he'd accept it.

Judging by the look on Steve's face, he'd given Steve a gift. He didn't really understand, but he could accept that, too.

"More than okay, Bucky. Wait there a sec?" He waited while Steve went and rummaged through a drawer. He returned holding an ordinary metal key and a twisted curl of pewter and deep red that glittered with blue. "One for the door and one for the wards, since I can't tell them you're always welcome here."

 _You're always welcome here._ Bucky held out his hand. With a pause, like he was making sure Bucky was okay with it, that he didn't want Steve to put them down on the table, Steve placed the keys in his hand. Carefully, his skin never touched Bucky's, but Bucky had known it wouldn’t. As he closed his fingers around the keys, the curl of pewter and red warm to the touch, he realised the thought of Steve's skin against his, the thought of Steve's life under his hand—it didn't scare him, not like it used to. It wasn't a comfortable thought, exactly, but…it didn't scare him.


	11. Chapter 11

Having Bucky staying with him had been good. Too good, making it harder for Steve to ignore the thing he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge. Giving Bucky keys to his place, keys to walk through the wards, having Bucky _accept_ them… It was probably just as well that the construction noise had dropped to something manageable and Bucky had gone home.

Bucky had tried to give the keys back, but when Steve refused to take them Bucky had just shaken his head, like he hadn't expected it to work. It _hadn't_ made Steve's heart catch when Bucky had put them on the clip with his own apartment key, because that would be a damn stupid thing to get worked up over.

Bucky being gone did make life simpler. Steve had made sure Sam and Nat didn't stop by while Bucky was with him, and he'd said no to their invitations for everything, which had meant more low-key teasing about _things they weren't allowed ask about_. Steve could live with it, because like the good friends they were, they'd kept their promise and hadn't asked.

They were good friends he currently hated, however, because why was his phone ringing with Nat's ring tone at, he groaned and slammed the light on his alarm clock, four thirty in the morning? Even as he was outwardly grumbling, adrenaline was starting to flow.

It was Nat.

It was four thirty in the morning.

Whatever she was calling him for, whether it was Shield business or personal, it wasn't going to be good.

"Nat?"

"Get suited up and get down here as soon as you can."

"What's happening?" He was already out of bed, phone on speaker, stripping off while he talked. There was a spare uniform in his closet, and he started getting dressed. "Can you bring the rest of my kit? I only have the basics at home."

"Can do. Foresight's prediction about the necromancer is apparently about to come true."

"How soon?" He had to force the words out past the sudden lump in his throat.

"Soon. Get down here, Hill's going to brief us. And Steve?" She paused, and he could _feel_ her weighing it up; when she spoke, her voice was flat. "They're saying it's going to be bad."

She hung up and a beep told him she'd sent the address to his phone. He pulled up the map and his heart went cold. It was a cemetery. If they were already planning defensively, it was going to be very bad.

He finished getting dressed, grabbed his keys, and ran for his bike. At this hour of the morning there was no traffic and he made good time, following the winding roads to the cemetery, which was far too close to populated areas for his peace of mind.  

Hill was talking as he ran up, floating globes of light illuminating the night, and took his place between Sam and Nat in the crowd of Shield agents. In the distance, he could see the barriers going up, concrete blocks and slick panels and the sheen of golden magic, but it wouldn't be enough, the flat hills of the cemetery stretching into the darkness, nothing between it and the streets but lengths of low-hanging chain.

"…Foresight said soon. We called a Tracer in, loaded her in a Quinjet and got her up here. She's been searching all night but a specific thread of a specific power's hard enough to find at the best of times and these aren't the best of times. She said she can feel power brewing, but she can't tell where it's coming from."  
  
"Isn't that a Tracer's entire job?" Barton asked.

"And she's one's one of the best we've got. But there's interference. "

"How can there be interference?" someone else asked, Steve wasn't sure who.

"Because this necromancer, whoever they are, must have been in the city for a long time. I don't know how they covered their tracks, but there's traces everywhere."

"What?"

"You're kidding."

Steve's heart clenched.

"Because this is exactly the kind of thing I'd kid about. The Tracer says there's necromantic power residue smudged across the city and its making it impossible to trace where this power's coming from."

It was Bucky. It had to be Bucky. Not the brewing power, but the smudges, the residue of every time he'd used his power. And maybe of the flowers themselves, people coming home from the hospital and taking their bouquets, spreading veins of necromancy through the city that were confusing the Tracer's power.

If they couldn’t find the source, all they could do was fight the dead. What had Bucky said? Maybe tens of thousands of dead in the city and it was going to be bad. People would die, and not just Shield agents.

Steve had to ask. It was unforgivable, Bucky would be justified in hating him, but he had to ask if Bucky could help.

"We're going to keep trying, but for now we're heading for the obvious places. Cemeteries, graveyards, any that can't be sealed off and the dead contained, and that's most of them."

Hill was still talking, handing out assignments, but Steve wasn't listening. People started to break away, and he still wasn't listening.

"Steve."

He was vaguely aware that Nat had said his name, but not enough to reply. Someone shook him, and it knocked him free of his thoughts.

"Hey, get it together, man." Sam was peering at him in concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He looked at both of them. "I have to go."

"You have to go?" Nat asked.

"I think I have something that will help."

Sam and Nat looked at each other, then at him. Steve held himself still with sheer will, his entire body poised to bolt, then Sam said, "Go, we'll cover for you," and he did, running for his bike.

He broke every speed limit, the bike roaring underneath him like an angry dragon, and pulled up outside Bucky's building. The sky held the promise of dawn, a sliver of light visible over the horizon, as he threw himself up the stairs, using one of Nat's unlock charms on the front door, leapt down the stairs and picked his way down the half-demolished hall.

He knocked, but Bucky didn't answer, not surprising given the hour, and he used the charm on the door. Bucky's wards rose up around him, testing him, tasting him, not quite their usual welcoming selves. He couldn’t talk to them, but he wasn't here to hurt Bucky and they knew him, they liked him, and they settled, grumbling and grumpy, and let him through.

Bucky was sound asleep and snoring, one leg sticking out from under the blankets in a careless sprawl. He looked young and innocent, and so vulnerable Steve almost turned around, but he couldn't. He needed his help.

He made his way to the side of Bucky's bed and leaned over, intending to wake him.

Bucky beat him to it.

His eyes snapped open, filled with fear at the shape looming over him. His hands shot out and latched onto Steve's neck. Not squeezing. Bucky wasn't trying to strangle him; he'd gone for exposed skin.

Everything Bucky had lived through, Steve never should have surprised him in his sleep. Never should have scared him enough he'd gone for skin to protect himself. Bucky's eyes were startlingly ice-blue, but Steve wasn't afraid. Bucky's fingers curled, flattened, but his power didn't touch Steve and Steve didn't move, just said, "Bucky," in the softest voice he could manage.

Bucky shuddered, blinked, closed his eyes briefly and they were once more blue-grey, filled with momentary horror, then he scrambled away from Steve and up the bed. "Shit. Shit, I'm sorry, but don't do that. Don't ever do that. I could have—" He scrubbed his hands over his face. "How'd you even get in here?"

"Your wards let me in."

Bucky dropped his hands and stared at him.

"I know. I guess they really do like me." Steve managed a tiny smile. "And I'm sorry, but we've got a problem."

"You we, or," he waved a hand between them, "or we we."

"Everyone we." He took a deep breath. "You remember when I warned you about not using your powers outside your wards, because Foresight had seen a necromancer?" Bucky nodded slowly. "Turns out they were right. Foresight says he's here. The dead aren't walking yet, but necromancy's rising through the city, and it's only a matter of time. It's going to be bad."

Their silence wrapped them, fragile in a way Steve had forgotten it could be. "You didn't think it was me," Bucky said when he broke it, half a question, like he knew the answer but he needed Steve to say it, and he shifted, bare foot sliding, tentative and slow, across the bed until it was almost brushing Steve's thigh. "That's not why you're here."

"No, Bucky. Never." Bucky had never reached out before. Never. Slowly, giving Bucky plenty of time to stop him, he pressed his bare fingertips to the arch of Bucky's foot, his skin against Bucky's an offering. Bucky stared at his hand and didn't move, so Steve curled his fingers around his bare ankle. Bucky's skin was warm under Steve's touch and he didn't pull away. The look on his face made Steve's heart beat faster. It made him want to keep touching him. It made him never want to stop. _No time, no time_. "There's someone else out there and we can't find him."

"Why not?" His voice was husky, and he had to clear his throat. "I thought Shield had people for this."

"Normally yes." Steve slid his hand a little farther up Bucky's leg, so he could hold onto him a little more, palm against his calf, warm and solid. Bucky shivered, eyes half-closing. "But they're hitting interference. There's traces of necromantic power all over the city and it's making it impossible."

Steve could pinpoint the moment Bucky understood. It didn't take more than a second or two. "It's me. I'm all over the city."

"I think so."

Bucky's eyes went cold. Still blue-grey, but cold. Angry. "He's using me for camouflage. He's hiding behind my power." Slowly, his eyes began to lighten, flaring ice-blue. Steve's hand tightened. "He's going to use me to hurt people."

"It's not your fault."

"Maybe not." Bucky tossed the covers back and climbed out of bed, his leg sliding through Steve's hand, Steve's fingers trailing over his foot. "But if he's hiding behind my power, it's my responsibility."

He stripped out of his ratty t-shirt and pyjama pants, not seeming to care if Steve saw him naked. Steve got a good look at smooth muscle and ragged scars before he caught himself and turned away, the combination waking a whiplash of reactions he didn't have time to deal with as he listened to Bucky getting dressed.

"Take me where you need me." Steve turned and Bucky was waiting by the door. "Wherever they're gonna walk. Take me there."

He opened his mouth to say _no,_ he opened his mouth to say _just tell me where to find him,_ he opened his mouth to say _you can't_ , and Bucky caught his eyes. Held them. Bucky's eyes were an ice-blue so bright they were almost glowing and there wasn't an ounce of give in them, and Steve closed his mouth, because Bucky knew. He knew what this would mean. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. Some things you don't get a choice about." As he turned away, Steve glimpsed a weariness so profound it made his heart ache. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

Bucky didn't know where Steve was taking him, and it didn't matter. This was the end.

His arms were wrapped around Steve, his chest was pressed against the solid mass of Steve's back, and his forehead was pressed between Steve's shoulder blades, because he was on the back of Steve's bike, a beast of a thing with the roar of a pissed-off lion.

If it had to end, and he'd always known it would have to end, let it end like this. Let it end with Steve's warmth soaking into him, Steve's strength under his arms. Let it end with the memory of Steve touching him, skin to skin, with no fear, no hesitation, Steve's life glowing golden and bright and beautiful. Let it end with knowing that he wasn't afraid, that he knew he wouldn't hurt Steve if he touched him skin to skin. Let it end with him knowing that he wanted it. 

He could hold those memories close when he was mind locked and power blocked and in prison for the rest of his life.

Because this was the end.

There was no choice. There wouldn't have been even if it wasn't his power the necromancer was hiding behind. If he stood by and let a necromancer raise his dead in his city and hurt people when he could stop it, he'd be just as guilty as if he'd done it himself.

 _God damn you, Steve. God damn you._ He pressed his forehead harder against Steve's back. _I'm so glad I met you, even if this is the end._

He didn't dare set his power free while he was on the bike; he'd fall off and die, but it didn't matter because Steve was stopping the bike in a spray of gravel and he could hear the sounds of fighting.

Steve threw himself off the bike and Bucky followed. There were screams, the sounds of fire and bullets and chaos. It was a battle, the living against the dead, and the dead couldn't be hurt, they didn't feel pain, they had no will and they couldn't be reasoned with because they were weapons and the only way to bring them down was to destroy them.

Shield was doing their best. There were blades and fire and magic Bucky didn't bother to identify, but the dead were still coming, the cemetery vanishing over the horizon, and he braced himself and reached for the smallest part of his power.

Each of the dead flashed into his awareness but for the first time they didn't see him, putrid strands of power binding them and blinding them and stretching away into the distance.

"Bucky." Steve's voice held anger, fear, but of course it did. Here was the truth of what Bucky was, spread out in all its violent glory.

This was the end. _So be it._ Bucky slammed open the door on his power and it blazed to life. The cities' dead smashed into his awareness, each one a point of starlight, filling his mind with a galaxy of constellations.

He reached for the putrid threads of the dead in front of him and severed them, caught the dead when they would have crumpled, nothing but empty puppets of flesh and bone with their strings of power cut, and wrapped them in _his_ power. They turned towards him like his flowers, offering themselves, but he sent them back to their graves, whispering, "Peace," and, "Rest."

The sounds of shock and relief ebbed and flowed like a wave, but Steve's single intake of breath cut through them like a knife. "That was you."

"Yes."

Suddenly Steve's hands were on him, were on his bare skin, palms pressed against the curve of his neck, thumbs sliding under his shirt to rest against the ledge of his shoulder blades, fingertips settling in the hollow of his collarbone. They were strong and warm and he could feel golden life swirling under Steve's skin. "Take what you need, Bucky. Just don't kill me."

He wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry, because Steve was a fucking idiot, offering his life to a necromancer. How had he survived this long. _How?_

"I don't need it," he murmured, because he didn't. He didn't need to kill, he didn't need the life swirling under Steve's skin to fuel his power, because there was a roiling core of energy inside him, a nuclear sun he could barely contain. It was how every pet had risen from the cemetery and answered his call. It was why he had to fight not to destroy the flowers he called from the dead.

Pierce had never been able to steal it, no matter how much he'd made Bucky bleed. It was why he'd made Bucky watch when he'd used Bucky's power to kill. He'd refused to believe Bucky couldn't hand it over. If he could have figured out how, Bucky would have, he would have saved every victim of his power, but he couldn’t. What Pierce had wanted was part of him, and he reached inside and set it free completely.  

Whoever this necromancer was, if he thought he could come into Bucky's city and raise Bucky's dead to hurt people, if he thought he could turn Bucky's dead, Bucky's innocent dead, into weapons, he was about to find out how a big a mistake that was.

Bucky followed the thread of putrid magic, and maybe it was his imagination, but it felt like malice and petty hatred, and found him, crouched like a toad in the centre of his power. Six dead stood sentry around him and Bucky felt cold rage rising: six dead, standing in a circle. Six dead, surrounding the necromancer. Six victims, who'd died to fuel the necromancer's power.  

Bucky slammed down on him and slashed the threads of power joining him to the dead.

It rebounded, backlashed like a severed cable, and he vanished from Bucky's awareness. Not dead, Bucky would know if he was dead, but unconscious. Bucky caught the six dead before they could fall and wrapped them in his power.

He caught all the dead before they could fall. There were two other cemeteries where the dead had been called from their graves, and Bucky caught each and every one. His power flowed through them as he formulated the right words. "Peace. Harm no one. Go back to where you were. Rest."

Like a wave, they turned and began to move. Not shambling; Bucky's power granted them the grace of the living.

To the six who'd been sacrificed, he whispered, "Lie down. Sleep. They'll be there soon. They'll take you home," and didn't realise he'd wept until Steve was wiping tears off his face.

"Got a map," he murmured to Steve, leaning into him, knowing this was the end. Steve called out and a, _a kid_ in a Shield uniform passed Steve a tablet with a map of the city on it, then stared at Bucky with eyes like an owl. Bucky swiped until the map matched his mental picture and pointed. "He's there. Unconscious." He lifted his eyes to Steve. "There's six dead with him. You need to get them home to their families. I gave them my word."

Steve handed the tablet back to the kid, and said, "You heard him. Pass the details to Agent Romanov ASAP." The kid nodded and puffed up his chest, like Steve had given him a sacred quest, and Bucky knew he wasn't really a kid, but right now he felt about a hundred years old. He could still feel all the city's dead; the ones who'd been called were slowly returning to where they belonged, but he could still feel them. He could feel all of them.

He was so tired. His core of energy was almost empty; he'd drained it nearly dry and he had nothing left.

Steve put his hands on his shoulders and gently turned him and he didn't fight, just let himself be moved until his forehead was against Steve's chest. Steve's arm was around him and Steve's hand was cradling the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair. He didn't fight when Steve slipped his hand under his shirt and pressed his palm against his skin, settling it in the small of his back.

He didn't fight when Steve curled his other hand around the back of his neck, fingers under the collar of his shirt, skin against skin. He didn't fight when Steve pressed his cheek against his temple.

He didn't fight because he didn't want to. He wanted this. His arms were folded between them, his hands curled against his chest, and he took a deep shuddering breath and pressed his face into the hollow of Steve's throat where the skin was exposed by the vee of his uniform. Steve turned his head and kissed his temple and Bucky freed a hand and curved it around the nape of Steve's neck, skin to skin.

Steve's life, golden and glowing, filled his awareness, but it was overwhelmed by the feel of Steve's skin against his. Of Steve touching him. Of the fact that he was touching Steve, breathing him in. He'd had his hands on Steve's skin before, but this was the first time he'd ever _touched_ him.

"Thank you." Steve's lips moved against his skin and Bucky shivered.

"I had to."

He waited for Steve to say _no you didn't_ and wasn't sure what he'd do, but Steve didn't. Steve just nodded and held him a little tighter.

This was the end, but if it had to end, and he'd always known it would, at least he could end it in Steve's arms.

Bucky could hear conversations, called orders, vehicles coming and going, but no one approached them. Bucky didn't know why, unless they were waiting for whatever specialist Shield unit dealt with necromancers. Until then, he was going to keep his eyes closed and hold onto this feeling for as long as he could.

There was a crunch of gravel, someone approaching, and then a man's voice said, "I'm guessing this is who we couldn’t ask about?"

Steve's arms tightened. "Yeah, Sam, he is. But he's also the one who shut everything down. He saved the city."

"Because he's a necromancer. Right?"

Bucky lifted his head to meet Steve's eyes. They were pained, torn, and Bucky made a decision. He pulled out of Steve's arms, felt his hands slip away and mourned their loss, but turned to face the man Steve had called Sam. There was a red-haired woman approaching, eyes fixed on Steve, and he waited until she was in earshot. "I'm a necromancer. Rogue necromancer. Steve didn't know. So arrest me or whatever you're going to do, but leave him out of it."

This was the end, but there was no reason it had to be the end for both of them.

They looked past him to Steve. Bucky refused to turn around. He refused to react when Steve slipped his hand through his, but both new arrivals flinched—it was faint, nearly imperceptible, but it was there. Steve responded by covering their joined hands with his other hand, so Bucky's was wrapped in both of Steve's.

Bucky still didn't look at him.  

"I knew he was a necromancer," Steve said. "He didn't hurt anyone and so I made a choice. And even knowing what it might mean for him, he still came when we needed him."

"He's the reason there's traces all over the city?" the red-head asked.

"Yes," Bucky said. "But Steve didn't know anything about it."

"Steve knew everything about it," Steve said.

"Will you shut up?" Bucky hissed at him. "I'm trying to save your career and maybe keep you out of prison."

"By throwing yourself under the bus."

"If that's what it takes," he ground out. "I'm done either way. This is the end and I knew it was the end from the moment I decided to come with you, but it doesn't have to be the end for both of us. Just," he tried to pull his hand away from Steve's, but Steve hung on, "will you just let me do this for you?"

"No."

Bucky let out a frustrated growl.

"I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me."

"It's not a sacrifice if I'm already going to die." At Steve's look of horror, he amended it to, "Not die. Get locked up forever. Whatever it is, it's happening anyway."

"Still no."

"For fuck's sake. Can you talk some sense into him?" He whirled on Sam and the red-head, who were both watching with bemusement.

"Not based on the evidence so far," the red-head said.

"She's not kidding."

"Can I ask what you were doing to put traces of necromancy all over the city?" the red-head asked. "Since apparently you weren't hurting anyone."

"He was raising flowers," Steve said.

"Flowers?" Sam asked, exchanging a look with the red-head and then they both looked at Bucky with matching what-the hell expressions.

Steve squeezed his hand. Bucky said, "I scavenge dead flowers out of dumpsters. I use my power to raise them, and then I sell them on the street. They last about a week, which is the same time they lasted the first time around."

"You raise flowers," Sam said, and it was eloquent in its disbelief. "A necromancer who raises _flowers._ "

"So would you say you're more of a necrofloramancer?" The red-head was amused, he could tell, but Bucky knew it wouldn't save him.

"And did you know," Steve added. "There's a good chance cut flowers aren't even dead?"

"Don't start that again," Bucky said wearily. "My power works on them, so that means they're dead. I was raising the dead." The brief burst of energy, the tiny rush of adrenaline, arguing with Steve had given him, was draining away. He slumped against Steve's arm.

"You're not a scientist," Steve told him, freeing one hand to slide it around his shoulders and pull him closer. "I told you that before."

He closed his eyes at the silence that followed. Closed his eyes and turned his head to press his forehead against Steve's shoulder as Steve's hand found its way to press against the skin of his neck and the glow of his life was a comfort.

"You have to take him in," Sam said delicately. "There's no choice. Too many people saw what happened. Too many people know."

"I know." Steve's arm tightened around him.

"Take him to Hill," the red-head said. "She'll know how to handle it."


	12. Chapter 12

They took him into Shield custody. Taking everything into account, Bucky knew they were gentle about it.

Steve, flanked by Agent Wilson and Agent Romanov, who were Sam and the red-head respectively, took him to the Deputy-Director of Shield. He wasn't physically restrained, but Agent Romanov placed a spell on him that would stop him from touching anyone.

Except Steve.

There'd been some intense, hushed conversation he'd couldn't overhear and didn't try between the three of them while Bucky sat in the back of a black SUV and stared at nothing, the dead once more gone from his awareness, and then she'd cast the spell. "With a Steve Rogers exception," she'd told him, and he couldn’t tell if it was disapproval or concern or something else entirely in her voice.

The whole drive to Shield, the walk through the halls, Steve kept his bare hand on Bucky's skin—an act of defiance that matched his whole body, but Bucky knew it was also a declaration. _Not_ for the Shield agents watching, who knew what Bucky was, because apparently gossip ripped through Shield faster than dysentery. Not for Deputy-Director Hill, who listened to Steve's story and didn't ask Bucky any questions before he was taken away.

It was a declaration for Bucky. Just for Bucky.

They locked him up, Agent Romanov's spell still in place. Bucky wouldn't call where they put him a cell, because _cell_ conjured ideas of iron bars and dirty toilets and cement walls. It was a room, clean and neat, with a bed and a tiny bathroom with at least the illusion of privacy, but he had no doubt it was fully monitored.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around: at the shiny tile, at the muted beige walls, at the chrome of the bathroom, just visible through the doorway, and was struck with the sudden desire to laugh. The not-a-cell Shield had locked him in was more like a studio than his shithole apartment.

It was about the same size, too.

He thought it was about noon, but he wasn't hungry. He lay back on the bed, his feet on the floor, and stared up at the ceiling. He waved, just so they'd know he knew they were watching, then shut his eyes.

He wondered if he'd ever see Steve again.

 

* * *

 

Steve stood in front of Deputy-Director Hill's desk with his hands behind his back, not quite at attention, and said, "Deputy-Director, you don't understand."

"Agent Rogers, I understand more than you think. You encountered a necromancer, a necromancer who was using his powers, and decided, despite what your duty required of you, not to bring him in."

"Because he wasn't hurting anyone."

"That you knew of."

Steve didn't glare at her, because you didn't glare at people when you were trying to save the man you loved from prison or worse. It was the first time he'd allowed himself to acknowledge it, but he didn't flinch from the thought. He'd put his hands on Bucky's skin and offered Bucky his life; that had been a declaration of love louder and stronger than anything he could ever put into words.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, setting both feelings and fear aside. They wouldn't help. "Yes, that I knew of. But I didn't jump into the decision lightly. Bucky had the chance to use his power on me and he didn't. That told me he wasn't willing to buy his freedom at the cost of hurting me. I shadowed him when he went through his days and it wasn't something he put together to fool me. He had an established routine, one that was obviously the product of months, maybe years, of routine. It was verified, unprompted, by third parties." _Thank you, William and Benjamin._ "His lifestyle matched up with the level of money he was bringing in. And—" How did he explain this? How did he explain _Bucky?_

Hill looked at him expectantly.

"And I got to know him. He argued with me about the decision not to bring him in." He couldn’t help smiling a little at the memory, but he caught himself and stopped. "He was there for me when I needed him. Everything he'd been through, everything he's lived, he could have been a monster, and he's not. He's a good person. He's one of the best people I've ever met."

"And you don't think your judgement's compromised?"

"It is now," he admitted. "It wasn't then." _I'm sorry, Bucky. I'm so sorry, but I don't know if you'll speak for yourself._ "There's something you need to know."

"What's that?"

"Alexander Pierce."

Her eyes narrowed. "What about him."

"Bucky was his necromancer, the one we couldn’t find, the one we thought was dead. Not by choice. His parents gave him to Pierce when he was sixteen. "

"Jesus." There was horror in her eyes and Steve leapt on it.

"They threw him away like he was trash when his power manifested, because they were afraid of him, because they were ashamed of him. They didn't want anyone to know, so they gave him to Pierce who promised to make it all go away." Hill's jaw worked, but she didn't say anything. "You know what the people we pulled out of Hydra were like. You know what they'd been through."

"How long?"

"Three years, as far as I can work out. It's not something Bucky talks about. I'm amazed he told me as much as he did, to be honest. He'd hate that I was telling you."

"So why are you?"

Steve leaned forward and put his hands on her desk, looking at her earnestly. "What would we have done with him if we'd taken him out of Hydra? Five years ago, if he hadn't run, if Shield had brought him in, how would we have treated him?" He held her eyes, kept his voice soft. "We'd have helped him. We wouldn't have locked him up."

"A lot can happen in five years."

"It can, but it didn't. The only thing Bucky ever did with his power was help when we needed him, and even knowing what it was going to cost him, he didn't hesitate."

After a long minute, she nodded. "We'll take that into account. You understand that your actions are going to have consequences?"

"I know."

"Whatever happens with your necromancer, I suspect we're going to need you, so they're postponed for the moment." Steve opened his mouth to ask, but she held up her hand. "I'll keep you updated."

"Thank you."

"You're dismissed."

"Yes, ma'am."

The flunky behind the desk in the outer office pointedly didn't look at him, but Steve barely noticed, because Sam and Nat were waiting. "Hey."

"What happened?" Nat asked.

Steve rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. I did what I could."

"What about you?" Steve looked at Sam blankly. "What's going to happen to you?"

"I don't know. Something. She said it was postponed until they decide what to do with Bucky."

"Probably suspension without pay," Nat said and Steve lifted his hands, let them fall, because he didn't care.

"Which will suck, but you'll survive," Sam said. "But I've got a more important question."

"What's that?" Steve asked.

"Does this mean we can ask?"

"Yeah," Steve said, as an entirely unexpected flood of warmth spread through him. "You can ask."

"Good, because I have some questions." Sam exchanged a glance with Nat. "Since you've been sneaking out behind our backs to see a boy."

It dragged a laugh out of Steve when he wouldn't have thought it was possible, and Sam pulled him into a quick hug. "Come on. Let's get you home."

Steve started to protest, but Nat overrode him. "There's nothing you can do here. Get some rest, and a shower wouldn't hurt," she wrinkled her nose and it made him smile, "and you'll be ready if Bucky needs you."

The thought of leaving Bucky behind was like barbed wire on bare flesh, but she was right. She was right, and he knew it, but letting them take him home, knowing Bucky was alone, was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

 

* * *

 

"Mr Barnes?"

The voice from the ceiling startled Bucky awake and for several panicked seconds, he didn't know where he was. Slowly, it came back to him. He was in Shield. It was the end.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, hadn't thought he'd sleep at all, but they'd brought him food and he'd wolfed it down, as ravenous as Steve had been the night he'd shown up at Bucky's place, and his eyes wouldn't stay open after that. He was still tired, felt like he was wearing clothes made of lead.

"Mr Barnes?" came again, and he shuddered. The last person who'd called him _Mr Barnes_ had been Alexander Pierce.

"My name's Bucky. Can you call me that?"

"Bucky, then. May I come in?"

"It's your digs. You can do whatever you want."

The door slid open and a plain, slightly balding man in a dark suit stood in the doorway. "I'm here to talk to you about what happened."

"You're here to interrogate me, you mean."

"Not the word I'd choose, but whatever you're comfortable with. Come with me?"

Bucky went, following him down the hall into a plain white room with a table bolted to the floor and two chairs, also bolted to the floor, and wards that felt like acid and spikes.

The man in the suit, who told Bucky to call him Phil, apologised for the wards, poured him a glass of water, and said, "Let's get started."

Bucky waited for questions about what he'd done today. About what he'd done to Steve. About what he'd done with the dead.

There were none.

Phil didn't seem interested in today. He went right back to the beginning, and he wanted to know everything.

He hesitated, thought about refusing or staying silent, because what did any of that matter? But what _did_ any of it matter? This was the end.

Bucky folded his hands on the table, kept his eyes on them, and told him everything. Everything from the moment he'd woken up two months before his seventeenth birthday and looked into the dead eyes of Laundry. He admitted what he'd never told anyone: that when he saw her he hadn't been scared. He hadn't been upset. He'd been _happy._ He'd missed her so much.

Had he known she was dead?

Of course he'd known. Even infused with Bucky's power, the dead look nothing like the living. He'd known she was dead. He'd even known it wasn't _her_. It was only her body, but her fur had still been soft under his fingers and, even if it had only been her body, it had come because he'd needed not to be alone.

They'd all come because he'd needed them. And even then, even the first time, they'd walked with the grace of the living. His power had given them that, had held them together, had kept them intact.

When his parents had come into his room and stared at him like he was a monster, every one of those dead pets had flowed onto his bed, like they were protecting him.

Silence had stretched, Phil considering him while Bucky remembered being surrounded by the dead, little pinpricks in his mind, his power flowing out to them while they reached back for him. It had hurt to send them back, but there hadn't been any choice.

He was too tired to be angry when Phil asked if he'd stolen anyone's life for the power to call them. All he said was: _no._

Then he had to try and explain the core of power inside of him, the tiny brilliant sun, waiting to be tapped, how right now it was mostly empty. He didn't need anyone else's life. He _wouldn't_ take anyone else's life.

There was a much longer silence after that. Then Phil told him the core of power was his own life energy. _Most people can't see their own. Most people's isn't strong enough to do what you did._ Bucky just offered him a tired shrug, and then found himself recounting every time he'd ever used his power.

Phil was ruthless and thorough, and Bucky's mind felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool by the time Phil told him they were done for the day and took him back to his not-a-cell. His throat was dry and he was so exhausted he could hardly see.

He lay face down on the bed and didn't move, keeping his mind still so the memories Phil had stirred into life wouldn't notice him. He didn't want to deal with them. The air was sterile, and he missed the smell of flowers, he missed the rough lumpiness of his own bed, and he missed Steve. He missed Steve touching him. He missed the feel of Steve's life under his hands. It shook him. For so long he'd fought to avoid it and after less than a day he wanted it back.  

Surprise wasn't a strong enough word for what he felt when the door opened and Agent Wilson appeared, holding a bag. Bucky's first thought was that maybe he'd come to kill him for what he'd done to Steve. It must have shown on his face, because Agent Wilson said, "Calm down."

"I'm calm."

"Sure you are," he said with a little smirk and came inside. "Steve asked me to bring you these." He hefted the bag.

Bucky stared at him and he shook his head, like there wasn't enough patience in the world for him to deal with this. He dropped the bag on the floor, pulled out a blanket, and tossed it to Bucky, who caught it automatically. It was soft, smelled a little like flowers and a little like Steve, and Bucky recognised it. It was the blanket from Steve's couch. He resisted the temptation to rub it against his face.

"Head's up." Something flew towards him and he snatched it out of the air. It was a chocolate mint, wrapped in bright green foil. "He said," Agent Wilson heaved a deep, put-upon sigh, "to tell you the pillow's waiting when you're done."

He closed his hand around the mint, not letting himself think about what it meant. "Why?"

Agent Wilson lifted both eyebrows.

"Why— You know what I am, so why?"

"Because we trust Steve. Because he asked me to."

"Thank you."

He nodded and left without a word.

Bucky slept curled under the soft blanket that smelled like Steve and flowers, and tried to imagine what it would be like if he was allowed to go back to him.

 

* * *

 

Phil came for him in the morning after breakfast. It was a repeat of the day before, only this time he told him everything about his time with Hydra. About his time under the control of Alexander Pierce. About the pain and the terror, about being beaten until he bled, about watching Pierce use his power to kill.

He told Phil what he remembered about Hydra, which he'd thought wasn't much. Under Phil's skillful questioning, teasing out every last thread of his memory, it was far more than he'd thought.

He told Phil everything about the day Shield came for Pierce, about the explosion that woke him from unconsciousness and set him free, Shield so preoccupied with the aftermath that they'd missed him. He told him about building a life for himself out of nothing but will and stubborn determination, about the months of homelessness before he stumbled on the trick with the flowers, about the fear, the _terror_ of being caught before he figured out there was no one randomly scanning for proscribed powers.  

He refused to talk about Steve.

He refused to admit Steve had known he was a necromancer before yesterday morning.

How did Agent Rogers know to come to you, then? _You'll have to ask Agent Rogers._ Agent Rogers has already told us he knew you were a necromancer. _He's lying to try and make things go easier for me._ Why would he do that? _You'd have to ask him._

Bucky wouldn't budge.

Phil eventually let it go and moved onto: Why did you agree to help when Agent Rogers, who didn't know you were a necromancer and just randomly picked you, showed up at your apartment?

Bucky was impressed at the sheer amount of sarcasm packed into the question, but it took him a long time to answer, and when he did all he said was: _Because I had to_.

Phil seemed satisfied with that.

Finally, when Phil had drained him so dry he felt like if he moved too quickly he'd crumble into sand and blow away, he sent him back to the not-a-cell and left him there. No one asked him any more questions or brought him unexpected gifts. There was lunch, and dinner, and then the lights dimmed, and then there was a sleepless night, and then breakfast and lunch and if it wasn't for Steve's blanket he thought he might have gone mad.

He couldn't imagine a lifetime of this. No, he _could_ imagine a lifetime of this. That was the problem. It was too close to what he'd already lived. 

When the door opened he was expecting them to bring dinner. Instead, they took him out of the not-a-cell. Phil was waiting along with some interchangeable agents in uniform. "Where are we going?"

"We're releasing you into the custody of an agent. I have to put a tracker on you."

"Are you asking me for permission?"

"Not really." There was a sensation of ice over his skin and Phil said, "Don't try and run. I will find you and you won't like it." Bucky believed him.

They loaded him into the back of an SUV and he made his mind blank and didn't think until he was walking into Steve's building and out of the elevator and Steve was waiting for him. Holding out his hands. Bucky grabbed hold of them, and one of the Shield agents visibly shuddered. Steve's eyes went cold and hard. He reeled Bucky in and lifted Bucky's hand to press it briefly against his cheek and Steve's life was golden and bright.

There was some back and forth between Steve and Phil, but Bucky ignored it. All he could think was that they'd sent him home to Steve. He wondered if this was like the last meal they gave to the condemned.  

When he was safely inside Steve's wards, Steve held him and ran his fingers through Bucky's hair and said nothing while Bucky buried his face in Steve's shoulder and cried, the memories Phil had stirred into life crashing down on him all at once.

When he was finished, when his eyes were dry and burning and his stomach hurt but he felt unaccountably better, Steve leaned back a little and pushed the hair off his face. The tips of his fingers brushed against Bucky's cheek, against his ear, and he knew it was deliberate. Skin against skin. It was Steve talking to him, it was Steve saying things Bucky wasn't sure there were words for. Bucky leaned into the touch and Steve was drawing him up, drawing him out, like he'd been way down deep in the ocean's depths and he broke the surface with a deep sigh. "Do you know when I have to go back?"

"Not yet. They'll let me know, but whenever it is, I'm going with you. I won't leave you alone again."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, I do." Steve kissed the top of his head, making warmth surge through Bucky, and as Steve stepped away, it was all he could do not to reach out and pull him back. "Let me feed you and then you need to sleep. I don't imagine you got a lot."

"The blanket helped," he admitted. "And I ate the mint."

"I thought I should send one that wouldn't poison you." Steve gave him a light shove. "Go shower while I rustle you up something to eat. I'll leave clean clothes outside the door."

He showered and pulled on the clothes Steve had left him, thick socks, soft sweats and an oversized sweater that hung down over his hands, and he knew it was so he'd be comfortable and warm, and not because Steve wanted to cover Bucky's skin. He stumbled out into the kitchen where Steve was leaning against the counter, watching the oven. He held out his arm and Bucky didn't hesitate, tucking against him and wrapping his arms around Steve when Steve closed his arm around his waist.

"Leftover lasagne okay? I remember you like it."

"Sound's good."

He stayed there until the buzzer dinged, then let Steve steer him out to sit at the table and ate the lasagne without really tasting it. After, he brushed his teeth with a toothbrush Steve dug out for him, and had turned towards the living room and the couch when Steve stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I have an alternative to the couch."

"I'm not sleeping on the floor," he said, but he thought he knew where Steve was going with this.

"Sleep with me. It helped when I did it."

"When you slept with yourself?" Steve wrinkled his nose at him and Bucky managed a tired grin. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Steve's bedroom was warm. Welcoming. Golden browns and tans and deep greens and it felt like stepping into a sun dappled forest. Possibly he was too tired to be allowed to describe things, but Steve pulled the covers back and gestured for Bucky to get in and he did, sliding across to the other side and leaving room for Steve.

The bed dipped under Steve's weight when he climbed in and he pulled the covers up to their waists. Bucky settled his hand on Steve's forearm, the flow of Steve's life under his touch endlessly comforting. "Did you know I can feel it?" he murmured.

"Feel it?"

"Your life."

Steve smiled.

"It's golden. I can feel it under my hands, and it's golden and beautiful." He ran his fingers in a slow swoop up Steve's arm to his elbow and down again, feeling his life swirl and change. He looked up from his hand to find Steve watching him.

"There's something you should probably know," Steve said, turning to face him. Bucky pressed both hands against Steve's arm and Steve lifted a hand to touch his cheek. "I love you."

The words took a moment to sink in, they'd been said so matter-of-factly, like they were simply a fact of the world Steve was sharing with him. And that's what they were, he realised. For Steve, that's exactly what they were: a fact of the world.

"Are you going to ask if I love you, too?" Bucky asked, and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

Steve shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not a trade. I told you because I wanted you to know that I love you."

It didn't make sense, Steve was saying these things and he was so calm, smiling faintly, his fingers gentle as they curled around Bucky's. Bucky grabbed hold of his hand and held on tight.

"Bucky?"

Now Steve sounded concerned, and he wanted to reassure him, but he wasn't Steve, he couldn’t master that matter-of-factness while he tossed himself out of a plane with no parachute. He knew Steve was part of him, couldn't imagine life without him in it, but it was, he didn't know… He opened his mouth, closed it. Tried again. "Steve. I don't—"

"It's okay, Bucky."

Bucky covered Steve's mouth with one hand. "You don't know what I was going to say. It _wasn't_ I don't love you. It was: it's too big, it's too much. I need…I don't know what I need."

"You need to sleep," Steve said firmly. "You're exhausted."

Steve was right, he could feel it dragging at him, fogging his thoughts. He curled against Steve, forehead tucked into the curve of his neck, body curved against Steve's, Steve's arm around him, and Steve kissed his temple. Bucky hooked his bare ankle over Steve's, skin on skin. Everywhere his skin touched Steve's he could feel Steve's life, flowing golden and bright. Steve stroked his fingers slowly down his spine, and the motion soothed Bucky into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Steve woke up at his usual time, but he didn't get out of bed. Instead, he watched Bucky sleep, figuring the creepiness was mitigated when the person you were watching was asleep in your arms, half-sprawled across your chest, with their chin jammed in your collarbone.

His bladder eventually demanded he get up, which involved complicated disentangling from a reluctant to let go Bucky, and since he was up anyway, he got dressed and made breakfast. He wouldn't be getting ready for work, since _work_ currently consisted of having custody of Bucky.

When Agent Coulson had contacted him, to see if he was willing to take Bucky, he'd started to hope. That wasn't standard practice for dealing with a necromancer, it was so far out of standard practice it was practically on another planet, and it gave him hope.

He didn't know whether to say anything to Bucky. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, breakfast sitting in the kitchen waiting to be eaten, watching Bucky, who was curled in a ball in the centre of the bed, and he still didn't know.

"Bucky," he called, crossing the floor to stand a couple of feet away from the bed, because he didn't want to lean over Bucky, didn't want to risk scaring him again. Bucky blinked blearily up at him and uncurled. "Hey," Steve said softly. "I didn't want to startle you."

Without speaking, eyes barely open, Bucky opened his arms. It shot straight to Steve's heart, because it meant Bucky wanted him. Wanted to be held, wanted to be touched, wanted Steve, even half-asleep. _I love you_ didn't have to be said in words, and Steve wasn't taking anything for granted, he wasn't assuming anything, but he didn't think he was alone in this.

He slipped back into bed to wrap himself around Bucky, making sure to slide his hands over bare skin, the back of Bucky's neck, the strip of skin where his shirt had ridden up, _I trust you, I love you,_ struck with the wonder of knowing Bucky could feel his life. Bucky burrowed into Steve, clinging like he'd never let go, and Steve laughed softly and held him closer as his hands found Steve's bare skin in turn. "I made breakfast."

Bucky made a soft, approving, _expectant_ sound.

"I'm not bringing you breakfast in bed."

The next sound was not so approving.

"No way. You have to get up if you want to eat."

Bucky pulled back enough to deliver a one-eyed glare. His hair was a disaster, hanging half over his face, and Steve thought his heart was going to swell up and burst out of his chest. God, he loved him. He brushed the hair off Bucky's face, making Bucky blink at him, and kissed his forehead. Bucky sighed and cuddled closer and Steve could feel him drifting off again.

"Stay," Bucky muttered, pressing his palm over Steve's heart. The little noise of discontent he made didn't give Steve time to react, not that he would have stopped Bucky from wriggling his hand under Steve's shirt so he could press his hand against his chest in the same spot over his heart. Bucky's eyes closed on a sigh of contentment, and Steve knew Bucky was feeling his life flow. Bucky could put his hands on him whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, and maybe he shouldn't feel wonder; maybe it should freak him out that Bucky could feel his life, that it was right there for the taking if Bucky wanted it, but it didn't.

Breakfast could be reheated or remade. It wasn't important.This was important. "I'm not going anywhere," Steve promised and Bucky's fingers curled against his skin. His eyes fluttered open and Steve was caught by them, trapped in blue-grey, but he was happy to be there.

Bucky smiled, soft and sleepy and warm, and then his eyes slipped shut as he held Steve tighter.

_No, I'm not going anywhere. Whatever happens, I'm not going anywhere._

 

* * *

 

They spent the day doing very little. Bucky was still tired, his core of energy still refilling, and he wasn't allowed to leave the apartment, so he spent most of the day on the couch, Steve's bookshelves keeping him occupied. Steve would drop in and out, and Bucky wasn't sure what he was doing, something in his office, but every time he'd walk past, he'd touch Bucky, skin against skin. He'd drop down onto the couch and Bucky would slide over into his arms. Bucky didn't question it. You didn't question something that felt as right as this. You didn't question something that you felt like you'd been waiting for your whole life.

Bucky spent the night in Steve's bed, in Steve's arms, and didn't question it. Steve didn't say _I love you_ again, but the echo of it was reverberating through Bucky's bones.

The next morning, they were sitting next to each other at the dining room table, breakfast dishes waiting to be taken to the sink, when Steve said, "If you want to run, we can run."

Bucky froze and turned to look at Steve. He was calm, like he hadn't just suggested something that would break Bucky didn't even know how many laws. Like he hadn't just suggested doing it for Bucky. Steve had to know about the tracker, but he knew Steve: he'd have a plan to get rid of it.

Maybe, if it had been anyone but Steve asking, he'd think about saying yes, but he wouldn't do that to Steve. Maybe, if it had been anyone but Steve… But maybe not.

"No. This is the end. Whatever happens, let it be the end." Bucky slid his fingers through Steve's. "You set me free when you killed Pierce, when you broke Hydra. Shield should have had me then, but I ran. Everything between now and then, I've been in limbo, and now it's time to end." He lifted Steve's hand and kissed his knuckles, held Steve's hand against his cheek. "I'm glad it was you. It's always been you. All along, it's been you." He knew, now. He _knew_. "Maybe that's why I love you. Or it could be the way you assemble food. Who knows?"

"Bucky?"

"I love you." That's what this was, this Steve shaped space in his soul, this Steve shaped space in his heart, it was just so big, so overwhelming, it had taken him time to understand.

The dawning joy on Steve's face was almost too bright to look at, so Bucky kissed him. It took Steve by surprise, judging by the muffled sound he made, and this wasn't something Bucky had a lot of experience with, but Steve recovered quickly, and Bucky was nothing if not adaptable. It smoothed into something earnest and honest and gentle, Steve's hand cupping his cheek, Steve's life flowing under his skin, golden and bright.

"I love you, too," Bucky said when they separated. "Not a trade. I just love you."

Steve's smile was beautiful, pleased and just a little smug, and Bucky had to lean forward and kiss him again, a quick fleeting thing as the truth of it settled into his bones.

As if the universe knew, Steve's phone rang. They pulled apart and stared at it, like the utterly innocuous ringtone was a snake's warning rattle. Without letting go of Bucky, Steve half rose to his feet and stretched out one arm to snag it.

"Hello," he said. "Yes. I understand. I'll bring him." Bucky closed his eyes and tipped his head to rest against Steve's chest. "Yes, ma'am."

"Is it too late to run?" he asked when Steve tossed the phone on the table.

"I have to bring you back to Shield."

"Nice timing," Bucky grumbled, because that was easier than giving into the sudden fear.

Steve seized his hands. "Bucky. If it goes badly. Between the three of us, me, Sam and Nat could break you out of just about anywhere."

Bucky laughed, but it faded under Steve's steady gaze. "Steve? You're not serious."

"I don't know."

"First off, they wouldn't do that, not for me."

"I'm not sure that's true. I told them about you. They know what you mean to me."

"Steve." Bucky pulled his hands free to catch Steve's face, fingers curling around his jaw. "Promise me. _Promise me_ , whatever happens, you're not going to do anything stupid. Even if they do lock me up, I didn't hurt anyone. I helped Shield. It'll be a short sentence."

Steve was shaking his head and Bucky dragged him forward to press their foreheads together. "You will promise me, or I swear to god, Steve, I'll…" There was nothing he could threaten him with, nothing he could muster. "Please. I love you. The thought of something happening to you because you were trying to get to me, it kills me. I just found you. I might not survive losing you." It was deliberate manipulation, it was all he could think of, and god help him, it was _true._

"Unfair," Steve breathed. "Bucky."

"I know."

"All right, I promise."

"Thank you." Bucky kissed him and rose to his feet. "Now, you'd better take me in."

 

* * *

 

Steve walked into Shield with his fingers twined through Bucky's. He walked in to stares and whispers and flinches when curiosity about who Agent Rogers was holding hands with was answered by other agents with: _the necromancer,_ quickly followed by: _no, not that one, the other one._

They didn't walk in alone. Sam and Nat were waiting inside the main doors and they fell into step, flanking them, as they made the walk to Deputy-Director Hill's office. They didn't speak, simply gave encouraging nods, first to Steve and then to Bucky. Bucky's hastily covered shock, his confusion, at being on the receiving end of their support made Steve's heart hurt. He lifted Bucky's hand and kissed it, because he no longer gave a damn about what anyone in Shield thought.

He had nothing to lose, anyway. If this went badly, he and Shield would be parting company.

Agent Coulson was waiting outside Hill's office. Coulson was as inscrutable as always—Steve had never been able to read him, _no one_ could read him, so he had no idea how this was going to go. Sam and Nat peeled off to join him, Sam murmuring, "Good luck," while Steve and Bucky continued into Hill's office. The flunky who usually sat behind the desk in the outer office was missing.

"Do we wait?" Bucky asked.

"Looks like it."

 

* * *

 

Bucky stood in the outer office of the Deputy-Director of Shield, holding Steve's hand, and knew this had been inevitable.

Not the holding Steve's hand part. Steve was the anomaly, the one thing he never could have predicted, but ending up in Shield's hands—it had been inevitable. From the moment he'd called Laundry back from the dead, it had been inevitable.

Hopefully whatever was coming wouldn't be too bad.

The door to the inner office opened and the Deputy-Director stepped out. "Bucky? I'll see you now." He took a deep breath, gently freed his hand from Steve's, squared his shoulders in finest Steve Roger's fashion, and went to meet his fate.

Of course, Steve tried to follow him.

"Agent Rogers," the Deputy-Director said patiently. "I need to see him alone."

Steve looked like he was about to mutiny, and Bucky knew he was remembering his promise, that he wouldn't leave Bucky alone. Bucky pressed a hand against his chest, wishing he was touching skin, wishing he could feel the glow of Steve's life. "Steve. It's fine. I'll be fine."

Steve's eyes dropped to Bucky's hand on his chest and after a moment he covered it with his own. "I'll be here if you need me."

"You'd be here even if I didn't need you," Bucky pointed out, light, teasing, and it made Steve grin, just a tiny thing, but enough to settle them both.

Bucky followed the Deputy-Director into her office and she shut the door and gestured for him to sit in one of the chairs in front of her desk while she sat behind it. Bucky did and waited silently for whatever was coming.

He didn't expect it to be a bulging paper file that she slid across the desk. "This is you."

He blinked at it, thrown off balance. "I'm sorry?"

"We don't use paper files anymore, but I had them print this one, so you could appreciate the size of it."

He groped for a response, then gave up. "I don't know what you want me to say here."

"That's fine. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, but you prefer to go by Bucky. I'm happy to call you that." She flipped open the file, ruffled through the papers, pulled out a birth certificate, and pushed it across the desk to him. "Can you confirm this is you?"

It was his: his name, his birthday, his parents—and he bit down on emotions that tried to flare to life—where he was born. He nodded and gave it back.

"Thank you." She tucked it back in the file. "Everything you've told us has been surprisingly simple to verify. You really didn't try and hide your tracks." She tapped the top of the file. "If you ever want to read it, you can. There's some things in here you might be interested to know. Some sections will have to be redacted, mostly to do with Hydra, but the rest is available if you want it."  

"Uh, thanks?" He didn't know what to do with this. This was not what was supposed to happen. He didn't understand what was going on.

"Having considered your situation, and you should know Agent Coulson," at his blank look, she said, "he introduced himself to you as Phil, spoke highly of you, there's some different options Shield can offer you. We can block your power—"

"No." He was half out of his seat and didn't know how he'd gotten there.

"Sit down, Bucky." Her voice was firm, her hands were raised, but she didn't look even slightly concerned, and Bucky was struck with the certainty that she could turn him into a smear on the wall before he could draw breath to scream. "It wasn't a threat."

He sat down and clasped his hands together. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, but it's _mine_. It's part of me, part of who I am, and even if I never get to use it again, it's mine. I won't give it up, not if I have a choice. "

"All right. I'll skip over option two as well, which was modification?" He shook his head. "Option three." She paused and considered him, like she was weighing him up. "Option three is a job offer."

Obviously he'd fallen into some sort of alternate universe where what she'd just said made sense. "A job with who?"

Her lips twitched, but she remained as straight-faced as ever. "With Shield. It would be conditional, there's things you'd have to do if you accept, like get your high school equivalency, and we don't require a degree for our Specialists, but if you want one, Shield will help pay for it." She waited, and he knew he was supposed to say something, but he had nothing. "What do you think?"

"I don't understand."

"I pulled the stats on how many deaths and injuries generally result from a necromancy incident. They're high. If you factor in the psychological injuries suffered by the families of the dead raised by a necromancer, who tend to suffer associated trauma when their former loved ones start killing and maiming people, they get much higher. Do you know what the stats were for the necromancy incident you shut down?"

Bucky shook his head.

"Six dead, four Shield agents injured seriously enough to need medical attention, and the six who died were the ones the necromancer sacrificed to raise power. No one could have saved them."

"Did they get home to their families?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. I promised them."

"So I heard. You could help us, Bucky. You could help a lot of people. What you can offer is unique." She folded her hands on the desk and leaned forward. "When you shut down the necromancer, Agent Rogers gave you the opportunity to use his life energy and you didn't take it."

"The idiot put his hands on the skin of a necromancer actively using his power and said take what you need," Bucky muttered, staring at the floor, because he might love Steve, he might love the feel of Steve's life under his hands, but nothing was going to change how objectively stupid that had been.

She cleared her throat, and his eyes went wide as he realised what he'd said and who he'd said it to.

For the first time, she smiled. "But you didn't."

"I don't need it. I use what I have in here." He pressed a hand against his sternum. "I don't need anyone's life." Anyone _else's_ life, he guessed, if what Phil had told him was right.

"Like I said, what you can offer is unique."

She was serious. It was dawning on him that she was serious. She was offering him a job with Shield. This was not how this was supposed to go. This wasn't how the world worked. Suspicion flared, and his eyes narrowed, because this _wasn't_ how things worked. "I won't raise the dead for you." It came out harsh, harsher than he meant it to. "I won't turn them into weapons."

"And I don't want you to. That's not what I'm offering. Think of this as…guarding the dead from people who would turn them into weapons. That's what we want you to stop."

 _Guarding the dead._ It resonated through his bones the way Steve's _I love you_ had. "For Shield."

"For Shield, and for anyone who needs you. We aren't jealous with our Specialists. If there's someone who needs what you can offer, Shield will send you if you're willing to go."

"This can't be real. You're supposed to be locking me up. Mind locked, power blocked, prison for the rest of my life. That what Steve said happens to the necromancers that survive to be brought in."

"The necromancers that are trying to kill people, yes." She leaned forward and gave him a thoughtful look. "Bucky, do you really think you're the first?"

"What?"

"You're not the first person with proscribed powers to be offered a position with Shield. Every law has its exceptions and working for Shield is one of them. This is a genuine offer. I can't guarantee things will be easy. Not with what you are, but we won't, _I_ won't, allow you to be harassed or hurt. And if you want some completely non-biased advice? I think you should say yes."

He should think about it. He should think about it and give it time and weigh up everything and find out what the other options were and— "Yes. Yes, I'll take it."

She smiled. "Good. Welcome to Shield. I'll get them started on the paperwork and if you'll hold still, I'll remove the spell that prevents you from touching people. I'm afraid the tracker has to stay in place, at least for the time being."

He didn't like it, but he understood. "Yeah, I get it."

There was a brief sensation, wind over his skin, and she sat back. "There. Who you touch is up to you, but I'd advise you to tread carefully on that front."  

"That's okay. There's only one pers—" He snapped his mouth shut and was horrified to feel his cheeks warm.

She took pity on him and ignored it. "I believe Agent Rogers is waiting outside to take you home."

It was clearly a dismissal, so he got up and left.

Steve was waiting outside, pacing anxiously back and forth. Bucky caught his arm, pulling him to a stop. Steve curled his fingers around Bucky's wrist, pushing his sleeve up as he ran his hand up Bucky's arm, brushing his thumb over the sensitive skin inside Bucky's elbow, and Bucky shivered. Steve's lips grazed his temple, and he pressed his cheek against Steve's, letting his mouth drift over the delicate skin in front of Steve's ear as they stood together, breathing together, Bucky losing himself in the feel of Steve, in the golden flow of his life, in the warm, solid strength of him.

"Bucky? What happened?"

"I don't know. I don't understand. I think we're colleagues."

"What?" Steve leaned back, and Bucky blinked at him, a little dazed.

"She offered me a job. With Shield. As a Specialist."

Steve stared down at him and a smile slowly spread across his face. "You said yes?"

"I said yes."

Steve's smile got wider, and he settled his hands on Bucky's shoulders, squeezing gently, then trailed his fingers up the side of his neck, slowly, like he was memorising every inch. The glow of Steve's life, that golden perfect glow, beat in Bucky's awareness, mingling with the warmth of Steve's touch and the slide of Steve's skin against his as Steve cupped his jaw. Bucky tipped his head back and Steve kissed him, the explosion of sensation rolling through him and he pushed Steve's shirt up to touch skin, to skim his hands up Steve's side, feeling the play of muscle over ribs as he pressed closer. 

They finally broke apart, and Steve said, "Come home with me."

"That's where I'm supposed to go." Bucky laughed and pressed his face against Steve's neck, taking advantage of proximity to kiss the corner of his jaw. "I don't understand. This was supposed to be the end. I knew this was the end."

"Maybe it is the end. Maybe you're right about that, but, Bucky?" Bucky tipped his head back to look at him, and Steve kissed him, soft and sweet. "Endings don't just have to be endings. They can be beginnings, too."


End file.
